


In the Aftermath

by PoetryInMotion



Series: Clan Djarin [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: After season 1, Baby Yoda is cute, Din Djarin has heart eyes, Din is Touch Starved, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Family, Family Separation, Hurt/Comfort, Omera is a momma bear, Rating May Change, Romance, Slow Burn Ish, Tag Updates will continue until morale improves, and for a good reason, first in a series, helmet comes off eventually, no one dies, non compliant with season 2 I'm assuming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:48:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 23,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22202869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoetryInMotion/pseuds/PoetryInMotion
Summary: Sorgan falls prey to Moff Gideon's search for the Child. After they leave empty-handed, Din Djarin, hearing of the unsuccessful raid, arrives to check on a familiar farming village.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Omera (Star Wars)
Series: Clan Djarin [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1705543
Comments: 186
Kudos: 282





	1. Return

**Author's Note:**

> Hello Readers! This is my first Mandalorian fanfic. :) I'm not sure exactly how often I'll be updating, but hopefully, it'll be once a week. Please enjoy!

Din Djarin wondered about a great many things. For example, he wondered about such mundane things as when his next meal would be, where he would sleep and when. When he did find a bed, he wondered about other, more significant things. He wondered, for example, what his adoptive father had seen in him. He wondered what his adoptive father's face looked like. He wondered what would really happen if he took off the helmet.

Recently, though, Din's wondering had centered on the child sitting before him, sipping at bone broth, enormous eyes wide at his surroundings. He wondered where the child came from. He wondered how he was supposed to find his people. He wondered if he wanted to find the child's people at all. The image of the child in beskar armor came to mind, and, while comical, it had a certain appeal that tugged at something unfamiliar in Din's chest.

At this specific moment, Din was wondering if the movements of the child's ears had meaning. As they sat in the dim tavern, they were wiggling up and down in slight motions. Was the child trying to listen to the numerous conversations around them? No—usually, when he seemed to be listening for something, the child's ears would stand stock still. Perhaps it was too loud in here. If he had ears the size of the child's, Din was sure he'd be overwhelmed too, with all the noises of conversation and argument and fighting.

“You okay, kid?” Din asked, knowing he wouldn't get an answer. But the child looked up at him, ears slowing. 

“Listen, as soon as you're done, we'll go back to the ship. Okay?”

The child's head cocked to the right, which Din took as an 'okay.' Din leaned back in his chair, resting an arm on the back of it, and listened in to a conversation behind him.

“...that's what Makin said, anyway.”

“No way! Why would Imps be on Sorgun?”

Din's boredom turned into a sharp interest as the first person replied.

“Makin said they were looking for something, something important. Whatever it was, they didn't find it.”

The second person huffed.

“Well, yeah. It's Sorgun. The most important thing on the planet's krill.”

“Not to the Imps, anyway. Tore the place up looking for whatever it is.”

Din's stomach dropped through his beskar to the floor. He stood a bit faster than he should have, picked up the child, and slid some money across the bar to the tavern keeper.

The night was chilly, and the stars winking above seemed distant and unfamiliar. It didn't help that Din's insides were chilled too, humming with nerves. Out of some instinct which he couldn't name, he hugged the child closer to his chest as they made their way to the nearby shipyard. As soon as the hatch closed behind him, Din set the child down in his little cubby, then sat for a moment to let everything sink in.

Sorgun had been attacked. Because of him. What part of the planet had been attacked? He didn't know, but the instinct he had come to trust so closely told him it was near the familiar village. His mind flashed with images of hapless villagers with sharpened sticks fighting against Imperial blasters, the children huddled in one of the barns, a woman with chestnut-colored hair swept back from her face, looking down the sights of a blaster he'd left behind. He couldn't go. He'd been the reason for the attack. Him and the child. He couldn't risk their safety again.

And yet.

There was something in his gut that pulled him toward the cockpit, and guided his fingers to punch in the coordinates for Sorgun. The Razor Crest was still off the grid. If he landed far enough away, perhaps they would remain safe. At least, as safe as they could be.

/////

The pond was so still, and the sky was so clear, that Omera could make out each constellation without having to look at the sky. One of the constellations, the Maiden, seemed to be standing on her head, her skirt standing over her as if it had been thoroughly starched. The Twin Fish circled to her right. As it was every night, their faces met in a silent kiss as they curled around each other. All the rest of the constellations were behind her, yet to circle around into her view.

It was all Omera could do—sit and stare into the pond by her hut, as if it held meaning for her life, and for all of the things that had happened to her and her family. In the darkness of the mirror, Omera tried to pick out shapes, faces. She wanted to see so many of them. Her father and mother. Her husband, lost in the Rebellion. Winta, stolen.

She had made up her mind as soon as the chaos had died down, in the smoldering ashes of the village that had once surrounded the krill ponds. She would find the Imperial base and bring her sweet Winta back. But first, they had to find a new place to live. Moving had finally become unavoidable. Dealing with the occasional raiders was one thing. But an entire army of mercenary ex-Stormtroopers knowing their location? That was another matter entirely.

This would be their last night in their home. At least, what was left of it.

Omera had packed her belongings long ago and now sat numb. She wondered if she should leave ahead of her fellow villagers, try to find some intel on where the Imperials were based on Sorgun. Everyone had sworn to her that they would find Winta as they traveled to find a new home. But would it be soon enough?

Just as Omera was about to pick up her pack and start toward the other nearby village, some glittering lights passed above her, in a matter that was definitely not star-like. Her gaze darted upwards. It wasn't Imperial—they had a distinctive sound to them, a whirring sort of yawn. This ship was a little quieter. She squinted as it passed, trying to make out some marking on it. She couldn't help but hope to see some faded yellow paint, a familiar shape. The memory of a helmet that somehow still held feeling rose in her mind.

Omera watched the lights, praying that they would stop, that they would land nearby, that maybe, just maybe, the Mandalorian had returned. A little late, but better late than never.

Her prayer was answered.

Quickly, Omera slung her pack over her shoulder and ran toward the next watchman, shaking him awake.

“Your watch,” Omera said, turning and jumping into the nearby wagon.

“Wha'?” the young man mumbled.

But before she could give an answer, the droid was driving toward the clearing, and Omera's heart found a place in her throat. She felt no fear.


	2. Reconnection

Shit.

As he flew over the village, Din Djarin noticed that there were a few fires dotted around the clearing. He also noticed that the huts were all gone. Had the fires been made by the survivors to keep warm? Or were they a calling card from the Imperials, marking their scorched earth? He prayed that the former was true.

The clearing where he had landed on his first sojourn to Sorgan was, at least, still available. It was a little more difficult to land at night; there were no lights to guide him. But he still made it work, landing as if by instinct in the glade among the trees.

Din turned off the engines and command center faster than he usually did. Even if the likelihood of his being noticed was low, given the population of the area, he couldn't risk any unnecessary noise. He swung himself out of his pilot's chair and down to the hold, opening the child's cubby. There he sat, utterly nonplussed by the urgency which ate at Din's core.

“Okay, kid, listen up,” Din said, “This isn't like last time we were here. There are bad guys out there—really bad guys this time, not just raiders. I know you're not going to stay here, even if I tell you to. So just...stick close to me, okay? Or...wait a minute.”

Following the thread of an idea, Din pulled his cloak off over his head. After fumbling with it for a few moments, he found a solid method for tying it into something that roughly resembled a sling. He proffered it to the child.

“Well. Hop in,” he directed. 

The child's head tilted to the left, his ears drooping, his little wrinkled brow lowering ever so slightly. If he didn't know any better, Din would have said it was a look of skepticism. He sighed.

“Look, I can't have you wandering off. We're in the trenches now, and if you're not going to stay in the ship, you're going in the sling. Got it?”

With something that resembled reluctance, the child obliged, snuggling himself into the makeshift pouch. Din took the sling and carefully wrapped it across his body. The child rested against his chest, and his eyes seemed to laugh up at him.

“Yeah, I know,” Din grumbled. “I won't tell anyone if you don't. We've both got reputations.”

Din turned to his weapons cabinet, grabbing a few plasma bolts and making sure his blaster was fully loaded. He slung his amban rifle across his back, practicing drawing it with the child strapped to his front. After ensuring that it could still be drawn, he continued his weapons check. Blaster? Good. Whistling birds? Active. Flame thrower? Reloaded with an accelerant. Knife? Tucked firmly in the right boot, for if all else failed.

He looked down at the child that rested on his chest. This child, some might say, was his greatest weapon. Din didn't particularly take to that view. Children are not weapons. He didn't pretend to understand the child's strange ways—how he could manipulate the Force, how his eyes seemed to know everything that was about to happen just before it did—but he didn't intend to try to use the child. The powers were his, and his alone.

As he pressed the button to open the hatch, Din scratched behind the child's right ear. That seemed to be his favorite spot, for when Din did so, the child made a sort of purring, humming noise that sounded like a tiny podracing motor. Din had never used the word before, but dammit, it was cute.

The sounds of the forest leaked in as the hatch door hit the ground: strange insects and night birds on a backdrop of silence. The child's ears perked up and stood still. He was still purring, but it was lower in his body now, and not quite as audible. 

Din sighed and looked back down at the child.

“Well? You ready for a walk?”

Though, he supposed, the kid wouldn't be the one doing a day and a half's worth of walking, a large portion done at night. That was all up to him.

Instead of turning on his light, Din opted to use the night vision capability in his visor. Sure, it wouldn't be quite as effective, but it would draw much less attention. He set out along the path to the village, taking extra care to move as silently as possible. His gaze swept along each side of the overgrown path, thankfully not encountering anything but the eyes of various small animals—nothing threatening or unexpected. He made it a substantial way to the village, and the sun was just starting to rise, before he noticed a small light making its way towards him at high speed. A droid.

Realizing he had no time to hide—and even if he did, an Imperial droid would probably have seen him, anyway—Din pulled his blaster out of its holster and prepared for a shootout. To his surprise, however, the droid seemed to slow down as it approached. It also appeared to be attached to a wagon. He lowered his blaster slightly as he watched the wagon come into view, then all the way when he recognized it, and its passenger.

Omera stood as the wagon slowed to a stop. Even in the grey light of dawn, Din was struck by just how different she looked. Though she still stood tall, her shoulders seemed weighted by some invisible burden. Her dark hair fell lank on either side of her face, and her eyes seemed like two pieces of flint, ready to spark. Something within her had fundamentally changed, and Din stood, as if for an eternity, waiting for her to speak.

“You're back.” Din felt a chill drip down his spine at the tremor in her tone.

“I heard about the raid.”

“I assumed so.”

Omera made to hop out of the wagon, and Din stepped forward to offer her a hand. She took it reluctantly, and even through his gloves, he could feel how cold her hand was, and how it shook. With the same reluctance, her hand left his.

Omera's gaze fell to the child, and some semblance of warmth resurfaced in her eyes. She reached up and stroked one of his ears with a particular tenderness.

Din hadn't made it a habit in his life to apologize, but now, it felt not only necessary, but inadequate to describe this nagging tightness in his chest.

“Omera, I...” Din took a breath, trying to remember words. In the end, all he could manage was, “I'm sorry.”

Omera's eyebrows came together.

“Sorry?” 

Din shrugged.

“If it weren't for me,” he continued, “This wouldn't have happened.”

Omera huffed and shook her head, her eyes coming back to the child.

“None of us could have seen this coming—not even you, Mandalorian.”

“It's Din.”

Omera looked at him, and she seemed to know exactly where his eyes sat behind his helmet. He felt as though she could see right through him.

“My name is Din Djarin. I should have told you before. But,” he quickly amended, “You're the only one who can know.”

“So many secrets...Din,” Omera said, and for the first time, her lips quirked into a faint smile. “And they are safe with me.”

The tightness in his chest started to unbind, ever so slightly, under her gaze.

/////

The ride back to the village was almost completely silent. Omera's head balanced on her hand, eyes firmly closed. For a moment, Din had considered waking her. But then, he saw how peaceful her face looked, and decided against it.

Din's mind was still reeling. Omera hadn't told him to go away, to leave before he caused any more damage than he already had. She hadn't been angry, as angry as she had all rights to be. Instead, she seemed tired. Din had wanted to ask about the raid—what had happened, if there were casualties, how Winta had handled everything. He remembered Winta especially for her tenacity. She would surely be all right. Din cracked a smile. She would be thrilled to see the child again.

Din looked over at Omera again. The child had been allowed to climb out of the sling, and had immediately glued himself to Omera's side. Omera had fallen asleep stroking one of his ears, and the child had stayed there, leaning on her lap. The child had that look on his face again. It was one in which his eyes seemed far older than his years; it looked as if he knew everything in Omera's head. The child put a tiny hand on Omera's knee, as if trying to comfort her. But what was he comforting her for?

The village started to surface through the trees, and the tightness started to return to Din's chest. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Din reached out to Omera and placed a hand gently on her shoulder. Her eyes opened slowly.

“We're here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo guess who just discovered she was spelling Sorgan wrong??? On a bigger note, thank you, thank you, thank you for the response to the first chapter! I am so happy that you're on board, and so excited to bring you the rest of this story. I got excited and finished this chapter early, so I figured, why wait? I'll see you for the next chapter soon.


	3. Catching Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where were you?

Under the light of an overcast sky, the remains of the village looked even more dismal. The structures that remained jutted from the ground like the ribs of some great animal. The ponds were eerily still. So were the villagers, laying on the ground like corpses. The only person that seemed alive from a distance was Caben, still sitting and keeping watch. Upon seeing the wagon, and its occupants, he shot up and blinked to make sure he was seeing right. Then, he ran to another villager sleeping near him, shaking them with no small amount of enthusiasm.

“It's the Mandalorian!” he said, probably louder than would be considerate, “The Mandalorian's back!”

In what seemed like an instant, the entire village was awake and crowding toward the wagon. The children, though sobered and still sleepy, instantly gravitated toward the little green child toddling toward them. Din let the child go, his attention held by the grown villagers shambling in his direction. They all held much the same countenance as Omera; they looked as though they were still watching the attack unfold before their eyes. One old farmer leaned on a walking stick at the door of a burnt-out hut, eyes squinted, back bent. A young man put his arm protectively around his wife, who leaned into the contact. A teenager's eyes were ringed with circles so dark they almost looked painted on. Din Djarin took in every one of their faces as one voice came from the crowd, asking the same thing he was wondering about himself:

“Where were you?”

It was the teenager. His voice crackled with a bitterness that he shouldn't have known yet at his age. His lip curled into a sneer that Din felt he may have deserved.

“The kid wouldn't have been safe here. I had to—”

“You had to what?” the teen continued. “Make a bunch of noise, stay here, take up our resources for weeks, then leave us?”

“I didn't leave you defenseless.” Din tried to check the edge creeping in on his voice.

“Sure—against raiders. But Stormtroopers? You brought them here!”

“Arten, that's enough!” The old crone spoke up from the burnt-out porch.

The young man stopped talking, but the clench of his jaw and the poison in his eyes said volumes.

Din stepped up to Arten. To his credit, the young man squared his shoulders and met the Mandalorian's eye. Still. Anger—whether at Arten or at himself—needed to be answered.

“Look, kid. I didn't know I had more Imps after me. Much less a moff. I'm as pissed as you are about your village getting wrecked—”

“Are you?”

“Yeah. You might not think so, but I give a damn about this place and about your people. Would I be back here if I didn't?”

Din felt Omera's hand on his shoulder.

“That's enough.” Her voice softened the static growing in Din's mind.

A crack appeared in Arten's confrontation. A tear almost threatened to fall.

“My parents are dead because of you.”

“I said that's enough,” Omera repeated, but it was already too late. Having gotten the last word, Arten turned and joined his grandmother, leaving another consequence ringing in Din's ears. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Din saw Caben approaching him. He held his hands in front of him as if he were approaching some wild animal.

“I mean, I, for one, am glad you're back, Mando. Can I still call you Mando?”

Din gave no confirmation, but Caben rolled with it.

“Great, cool, awesome,” he stammered. “So...what now?”

Din looked around at the gathered faces. Some of them seemed to be looking for guidance, for hope. Others seemed to be trying to kill him with just their will. Din took a deep breath. He'd never been one for speeches, especially with such a divided crowd.

“Well...” he started, “I hate to say it, but it's really not safe for you to stay here this time.”

“We know,” said Stoke, attached to Caben as always. “I mean, it's not like we could rebuild here anyway. They poisoned the krill ponds.”

“Sounds about right.” Din looked around the treeline. “You know where their base camp is?”

“No. They left that way—” Stoke pointed toward the northwest, “but we don't know how far their base is. Or even if their base is that way. I mean, they could just be trying to throw us off.”

Din shook his head. “Not likely. If it was an ambush, there probably wasn't that kind of strategy involved. I'll take the ship later, get a view from the top. Meanwhile, you need to figure out where you're going to go from here. It's gotta be pretty far. At least fifty miles.”

“Fifty?” Omera's voice sounded faint.

“And in the opposite direction. We have to give you the best chance possible to avoid another attack.”

“But what about Winta?”

Din stiffened. He glanced over at the group of kids surrounding the child, and for the first time, saw that Omera's daughter was notably absent.

“Where is she?”

The terrible truth trembled on Omera's lips, and she held it captive for just one more moment before it had to be told.

“They took her.”

/////

Din probably said something about needing to think. Or maybe he said nothing at all. Maybe he just stalked into the woods without a word. But that didn't matter. All he knew now was that he needed to punch something. He needed to pour all of his anger, all of his guilt, into his fist and make it destroy.

After her initial shyness wore off, Winta had practically been attached to his hip. He hadn't known a person could ask so many questions, and yet, every time he turned around, Winta had another one ready for him.

“Why do you wear the helmet?” “How come you don't take it off?” “What's your armor made of?” “Is it heavy?” “Is it itchy?” “How do you take a bath if you can't take your armor off?” “Why do you keep saying 'This is the way?' That's not a very good answer.” “What's that?” “Can I touch it?” “Can you teach me how to shoot? Mama won't.” “Please?” “Pleeeeease?”

Questions, always questions. Normally, he would have been annoyed. But something about Winta—her earnestness, her candor and authenticity, the way her soft brown eyes lit up if he gave her an answer besides “yes,” “no,” or “because”—gave him patience. He became used to his curly-haired shadow as it bounced along next to him.

And now that shadow was gone.

The anger buzzing around in his skull hardly gave him room to think, or to find a tree weak enough to punch without injuring himself. He almost didn't care about that. If he couldn't find a dead tree, he'd settle for a healthy one. Either way, he wasn't leaving this forest without hitting something.

He should have been there. As dangerous as it might have been, he could have handled scattered bounty hunters better than an entire Imperial cohort. And the village would still be standing. And Winta would be safe and happy. And Omera wouldn't be heartbroken. Her heart would be whole. Her family would be whole. And how he wanted, how he wanted—

Din's fist flew into the nearest tree, taking a large chunk with it. Not for the last time, he was thankful for his beskar. Otherwise, his hand would have shattered. He swung again. And again. Over and over—he wasn't quite sure how many times. 

When his arm finally tired, he felt not better, but hollow. Which, he supposed, was better than the nauseating anger he felt beforehand. The tree now had a large scar across it, and Din almost felt bad for it. 

A cooing sound from behind caused him to whip around, cradling a wrist that was starting to feel every punch it had just delivered. The child was standing there, staring with his uncanny eyes. Din wondered just what he had seen, what he could see. There were some times that the child seemed to see everything—all the past, all the future, as well as the present. Din wondered if the child had seen this coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Readers! I have decided that this will likely be the date for uploads on this fic. So mark it if you want: Saturdays at 8 pm EST. See you next week. :)


	4. Loneliness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For as worthwhile as Moff Gideon had promised this mission to be, Vares Helbock still found himself bored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...the response to this fic has been overwhelming to say the least. I don't really have words to for how happy I am that you've chosen to keep reading this piece. I've never been more motivated to write than I am right now--or should I say ~write~ now? (I'll show myself out. See you next week, friends.)

About twenty miles northwest of the village, the lush forest faded like fraying cloth. There, the ground grew long grasses that changed color like the trees in the seasons. In this season, the grasses were starting to turn golden, with a few patches of green stubbornly hanging on to summer. Locals called it The Blanket, and it stretched out for miles around. At this time of night, the grasses were a dark sea under the stars. The only exception was an island of unnatural white light bordering a metallic encampment.

Vares Helbock sat in his bunker, waiting. That was pretty much all you could do after issuing a threat. At this point, there wasn't much strategy to plot, any speeches to make, or much morale to boost. They had made their presence known to the village that the Mandalorian had consorted with. When they didn't give up any useful information, they had taken leverage. And now they had to wait for the villagers to either suddenly remember where the Mandalorian had gone, or, at the very least, lie about remembering.

For as worthwhile as Moff Gideon had promised this mission to be, Vares still found himself bored. He took a stick from the ground and started poking at the fire. His eye followed the smoke spiral as it wound skyward to the filtration vent in the top of the bunker. He imagined how far it would go before it dissipated.

"Sir?"

Vares jerked out of his thoughts and turned to the Stormtrooper standing at the door.

"What is it?"

"Transmission, sir. From Moff Gideon."

Vares's spine straightened of its own accord.

"Right. Send it to my communicator."

The trooper nodded and left. Vares moved over to his small traveling desk and picked up the communicator with the delicacy of one holding a bomb.

The communicator sprang to light in the shape of Moff Gideon.

"Helbock." His voice was glacial and smooth. Dangerous. "How has your mission progressed this far?"

"As expected, sir. If the villagers knew something, they didn't feel inclined to tell. I decided to give them some...motivation. Their information for one of their children."

Moff Gideon chuckled.

"How fitting."

"How is that fitting, sir?"

"Never mind. Have they responded yet?"

Vares shook his head.

"No, sir. It's been about forty-eight hours. If they don't give up information about the Mandalorian's location within the next twenty-four, we'll intensify the pressure."

"Very well. Report to me tomorrow."

As the communicator fell silent and still, Vares was confronted with a pressure right under his ribcage. It was like some being rising up in his body, arching it's back against his diaphragm. He hoped that the villagers would just give the Mando up already. He was growing impatient. And his impatience was known to breed violence.

/////

Winter's eyes were so sore that she kept them closed even when she wasn't sleeping. This served a dual purpose. With her eyes closed, she couldn't see the landscape made unfamiliar by black and white helmets, by rough voices, by rope bound around her wrists.

It had rained earlier in the day, and her clothes still cling to her skin. She hoped that the Stormtroopers had simply forgotten to take her inside one of the bunkers, instead of the alternative: that they had left her outside on purpose. In spite of everything she had noticed that some of the troopers were at least decent. A couple of them had argued about whether taking her had been the right thing to do, and even though they decided, in the end, that her kidnapping had been necessary, it was a little comforting to know that there was doubt about the matter.

Someone was approaching her. Winter opened her eyes to see who, and immediately turned her face, recoiling. That was the man who gave the order. He was the one that grabbed her. He was the one who had pulled her away from her mother.

"It's all right, little one," Vares said as he crouched, holding his hands in front of him in a gesture of good intent, "I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to talk."

Winter said nothing. She hadn't spoken in the past two days, and she didn't intend to disrupt that silence now.

"Do you have a name?"

Silence.

"You look cold."

Though she tried to hold it in, Winta shivered.

"Here."

Winta turned her head as Vares took his cloak off and draped it with suspicious care over her shoulders. It was warm, despite the unfamiliar smell.

Vares smiled warmly at her.

"Better?"

Winta nodded hesitantly.

"Good. Are you hungry?"

Winta shook her head. She didn't know what this man could do to her food. It could be poisoned or moldy, or made out of live bugs, for all she knew. But her body betrayed her again as her stomach let out a long growl. Vares chuckled.

"It certainly sounds like you are."

Vares carefully shuffled closer to her.

"Listen," he said, "I'll bring you some food. But first, you must do something for me. Do you know where the Mandalorian went?"

Winta shook her head violently, her wet curls like whips against her face.

Vares's head tilted. An eyebrow quilted, one side of his thin mouth curled.

"I think we both know that's not true, little one."

Winta closed her eyes and turned away. She had never been a good liar. And despite her protestation, she was desperately hungry. No. She had to stay strong. She had to.

She imagined her mother telling her this.

The figure before her huffed.

"You seem to be an intelligent child. Now, if you don't tell me where the Mandalorian is, I'll be forced to do some very bad things. Wouldn't it be much smarter for you to just tell me where he is, rather than risk your friends and family? Your mother?"

A tear eked its way from between her closed eyelids.

"I'm sure your mother would understand. In fact, I'm sure she would be proud--"

"NO!" The word came as a scream, ragged and raw. It was every ounce of energy and defiance she could muster, and as Winta's eyes flew open, she took pride in seeing that Vares flinched.

Vares's face turned to stone. Without another word, he reached forward, snatched his cloak, and left her. He looked up at the stars again, and as he did, he noticed a set of lights from a ship as they drifted across the sky. He squinted. That was no Imperial ship.


	5. Migration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you remember when I first came to your village? I was a stranger then."
> 
> "You weren't a dangerous stranger. Not like him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends! This is a bit shorter than the previous chapters, but it offers a little peek at Omera's past, so I hope all is forgiven. A longer chapter is coming next week. Enjoy!

Omera felt as though she had a rope tied around her waist, pulling her back when she was supposed to be moving forward. Every step she took felt like betrayal. The normally ambiguous whispering of the trees had turned into a non-stop chorus of Winta...Winta.... Her ears tuned into the sound, in the absence of conversation around her. It was almost maddening.

The day before, they had decided on a plan. Din would scout to the northwest under the cover of night, while the villagers began their journey to...wherever they were going. One of the elders had a vague idea of where suitable farmland might be. For all they knew, it could have turned into a useless bog by now, but it was the only lead they had. It had been painful to leave that morning. The children still didn't seem to quite understand what was happening, and there had been plenty of tears. But now they were weaving in and out between the trees, a few of them playing a game. Her heart ached to watch them.

Omera kept looking over her shoulder, hoping to see Din coming up behind them. Better yet, she held on to a less-likely hope that he would have Winta in his arms. But every time she turned around, she was confronted with a never-ending sea of green. 

“Watch it!”

Omera turned just in time to see Arten sprawl in the dirt path, the contents of the basket he was carrying scattered on the ground. Despite herself, Omera huffed. Great. One more thing gone wrong. Then she scolded herself. If she were his mother... She shoved her frustration down and knelt beside him as he scrambled to shovel the krill back into the basket. Arten didn't meet her eyes.

“It's all right.”

“No, it's not.” Arten was shaking. “I should have been paying attention.”

Omera tried to force a cheerful tone.

“It's fine. You're a bit distracted, that's all.”

“We're all distracted.” Arten's hands fell still in his lap, and his eyes locked onto them, as if he were trying to memorize every line, every slight variation in his skin. “It's no excuse.” 

Omera's gaze lingered on him. She picked up the last of the krill, tossing them into the basket. Then she put a hand on Arten's shoulder, noticing the tremors under the surface.

“Walk with me,” she said, picking up the basket and standing. Arten shook his head, still not looking up at her.

“You don't have to—”

“I could use the company. I think you could, too.”

Arten rose slowly, eyes still lowered. 

They started walking again. The rest of the villagers had passed them by, but it wasn't either of their intentions to catch up right away. The two of them walked in silence, Omera casting her gaze toward Arten every once in a while. Ever since she'd met him, he'd always been thin. She'd come to the village when he was Winta's age, and she remembered how he darted around the grown-ups' legs like a little silverfish—quick, small, evasive. Now, his narrow features were even more sharp, with sleeplessness, with hunger, with grief. She'd known his parents, too, and not in the vague way that everyone knew everyone else in the village. They had been good friends to her, and Arten's mother had helped her when the time came for Winta to be born. It had been painful to bury them.

“I didn't mean to upset the Mandalorian.” Arten's voice was hesitant, as if he had dreaded breaking the silence, and only did so out of necessity. “I just...sometimes, I wish we hadn't brought him in. I know he helped us with the raiders, and I appreciate that. But since he came, we've had nothing but trouble.”

Omera considered how she might respond. It couldn't be denied that their lives had been complicated by Din's presence, but at the same time, making things difficult had never been Din's intention.

“Do you remember when I first came to your village?” Omera started.

Arten paused.

“A little.”

“I was a stranger then. Maybe not as strange as the Mandalorian, but a stranger nonetheless.”

“You weren't a dangerous stranger. Not like him.”

“Not exactly like him, no.” Omera paused, unsure of what to say next. “I was lonely, more than anything. But your mother and father were kind to me. Eventually, life moved on.”

“Yeah, but you weren't a wanted bounty hunter.”

“...No. I wasn't.” She hoped Arten wouldn't ask for more information.

A branch snapped behind them. Omera turned her gaze over her shoulder. Din was coming through the trees, the child in tow. Arten reached for the basket, mumbling something about wanting to catch up with the rest of the group. She let him take it, and heard his light footstep as she turned to face Din fully.

“Did you find them?”

“Right where I thought they'd be. Twenty miles northwest.”

Something crept down Omera's back—it was warm and cold at once. She couldn't be sure if it was anger or relief, but at least it was something other than numbness.

“How many are there?”

“I don't know exactly, but it looks like a pretty large cohort. Thirty, maybe forty.”

Omera nodded. That sounded accurate.

“So...what do we do now?”

Din took a breath.

“I think it's safe to say a full assault isn't feasible. I'm going to have to go in alone.”

“What?”

“I'll start heading back to the camp tonight on foot. It'll—”

“You're not going alone.”

Din stopped as if realizing what he had just implied.

“Omera, you can't—”

“If you think I'm going to stay here while my daughter is in danger, you're much less intelligent than I thought you were.”

“Omera...”

“Besides, you'll need someone to give you cover. I'm going with you, Din.”

Din stilled, then, with no small amount of hesitance, nodded. Omera nodded once, as if in a final confirmation. 

“Right. As soon as we stop for the night, you and I will set out.”


	6. Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were in a time of crisis; it was no time for something so simple and profound as trying to hold a beautiful woman's hand.

The sky beyond the trees was just starting to turn a shade of amber when the group finally decided to stop for the night. The children had long since ceased their game and had retreated to their parents' arms, or else to the wagon with the elders. There wasn't much discussion about the matter. Weary from a long day of constant travel, a blanket of complacency had fallen over them. One person at the front of the procession set down their load, and the rest simply followed suit.

Din strayed to the edge of the circle the villagers had instinctively made. He had no tent to set up, and he wasn't certain what the reaction would be if he tried to help someone in building a shelter. He was a controversial figure, after all. He turned his gaze from idling to following the only person in the whole group he could trust completely.

The main thing Din noticed about Omera was her gentleness, even though he knew that inside, she was fuming, biding her time until the camp was settled so the two of them could start their journey to the base. Her hands looked as if they were floating just above the hand and elbow of an elder she was helping down from the wagon. He noticed how her hands lingered for a moment until the elder was steady enough to stand on her own. When her hands finally left their places, they stayed in just the position they had been in, before the action dissipated for good, and her arms relaxed at her sides once again.

Din wondered what those hands would feel like in his.

His jaw clenched. No. That line of thought needed to end right there.

Though, he conceded, it wasn't like he'd never thought of Omera that way before. He clearly remembered several moments during his three weeks on Sorgan where he almost took his gloves off for a chance to brush against her hand when she passed him something. There were moments when her smile reflected itself under his visor, and there were even one or two times when he imagined what it would feel like if her hand would brush his bare face—what it would feel like to kiss that hand, and, even more scandalously, what it would feel like to kiss her fully, to hold her flush against his unarmored chest.

So it wasn't that the thought was new. The situation, however, was. They were in a time of crisis; it was no time for something so simple and profound as trying to hold a beautiful woman's hand.

The child murmured against his chest—a wordless complaint.

“All right, fine. Just stay where I can see you,” Din replied, loosing the sling and setting the child on the ground. In response, the child stretched to the very tips of his ears. Then, he stiffly toddled off to search the underbrush.

The rations were being passed around, just enough to keep a person from waking in the middle of the night. Din accepted his with a nod and a courteous “thank you.” Then, seeing that the child had caught and eaten his own dinner—the legs of some unfortunate frog disappearing into his mouth—Din set him down with the other children. Whatever grudge the people may have had with him, he was certain that suspicion did not extend to the child.

As he turned to leave, he heard Omera's voice behind him, telling him to wait.

He turned and saw her holding her own ration as if she had no idea it was really there.

“Would you like some company?”

Yes, he certainly would.

“I can't,” he said instead. “You can't see my face, remember?”

“I could have my back to you,” Omera replied. “Or I could try to eat with my eyes closed.” A humorless laugh punctuated the end, and when Din took a moment to think over the proposition, Omera's face turned serious again.

“Please.”

No explanation was needed. Din gestured with his head, and the two headed deeper into the forest.

When he was certain that no one from the camp would be able to see him, Din stopped, gesturing for Omera to take a seat. They were by a great oak, so tall they could barely see the top. It must have been hundreds of years old. Omera sat with her back against it. Din crossed around to the other side, and, checking the area one last time, removed the helmet.

It shouldn't have been as satisfying as it was, given the circumstances. A breath of cool air brushed against his face, smelling of pine, moss, and dirt. The trees around him were even more green without a tinted visor in the way, the sky above a bright and bloody orange. It took everything he had not to turn and look at Omera as she spoke from the other side of the tree.

“It must feel nice to take it off sometimes.”

Din nodded and sat. “It does.”

“Is it heavy?”

Din shrugged. “I guess it was when I first took the oath. You get used to it.”

“How will that helmet fit over your child's ears?”

Din laughed a little at that. The image of the child wearing armor came back to mind, and along with it, the strange ache in the center of his chest.

“I don't know if he will wear the armor.”

A pause. “Why wouldn't he?”

Din paused, took a bite of his ration. “I'm supposed to return him to his people—wherever they are.”

He heard Omera shift, almost as if she wanted to get a better angle to understand him.

“And who are his people?”

The word came with an undercurrent of venom. “The Jedi.”

Omera repeated what Din had said, her tone more reflective than vindictive. “The Jedi...I thought they were extinct.”

“Apparently not. I've heard that one of their kind helped destroy the Empire. And now I have to go find them, and...return the child.”

The two ate in silence for a few moments.

“I can't imagine...” said Omera.

Din knew exactly what she couldn't imagine. She had been separated from her child forcibly—how could she imagine giving up a child on her own volition? To be fair, Din couldn't imagine it either. He hoped that the stories of Jedi fighting the Empire were just that: stories. He hoped that, if he did cross paths with a Jedi, he wouldn't be any the wiser. He again wondered how he would train a child like his in the ways of the Mandalore, and it started to feel more possible.

“The last time I heard of the Jedi,” Omera continued into the heavy silence, “was when I was a girl. Before they were wiped out, before the Empire, our senator had dealings with them.”

Din started, confused. “Sorgan had a senator?”

“No...but Alderaan did.”

_Oh._

“I met Bail Organa a few times when I was young. My father was a merchant, and the senator would come to the trade guild every once in a while. He was a good man. Now, of course...”

Omera trailed off, and all Din could think of was the debris he'd driven through on a run just after The Disaster.

“Was your family...?” Din started the question, but he wasn't sure how to end it. Was her family...what?

Omera took his meaning. “Yes. They were. It's all right,” she continued, taking a shaky breath. “I wish I had had more time with them, but we were left on good terms. Silan, my husband, was actually there on trade business when...when it happened. I met Silan on Alderaan, you know. He'd come with goods from Sorgan, and...well. Needless to say, I followed him here.”

There were no words that Din could string together that made sense. He tried to make something like a sentence for a few moments, all the while knowing that his window to say something was rapidly closing before his eyes. He turned his head to the side, trying to get even a glimpse of the woman on the other side of the tree. He noticed her hand bracing against the forest floor, and without thinking, he reached out and put his own hand over it. Omera flinched from surprise but didn't move.

“We're going to get her back, Omera.”

Omera's hand turned over, and she laced her fingers with his. “Thank you.”

The moment stretched into an eternity, and Din finally got the answer to how it would feel to hold Omera's hand: good. Even under the circumstances, he decided, this was a good feeling.

“Omera!” a voice came from the direction of the village.

The moment was over. Quickly, Din pulled his hand away and snatched his helmet, replacing it on his head. He and Omera stood as someone came running toward them.

“What's wrong?” Omera said, her tone inlaid with dread.

The villager took a breath and shook his head. “You need to see this.”

The dread under Omera's voice leaked into Din, a draining of the warmth in his body, as the villager led them back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliff hanger this week. As a reader I hate them, but as a writer...anyway, thank you all for coming along on this journey thus far! I'm thinking this story is going to be about fifteen chapters, and, don't worry—as the tags say, there will be a happy ending. I'm thinking that posting time might change to around 4 pm EST instead of 8. Let me know what you think of the story so far—I love to hear from you all. See you next week!


	7. Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I suppose...I am afraid that if I start crying now, I will never stop."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Sad Posting Hours today folks. Just a heads up to prep something fluffy in another tab.

They heard the hologram before they saw it.

"...I assure you, I have no desire to hurt you..."

Omera stopped, rooted where she stood by fear. She knew that man. That face was the last she had seen before he smashed the hilt of his gun across her face–him, and Winta, eyes wide and terrified, screaming as the man gripped her arm and ripped her away. Now here he was, glowing blue against the darkening backdrop of dusk.

"...You have something very important to me, and I have been ordered to bring it back, and spare no costs. Now," the recording continued, "last night, a ship was observed flying over out encampment. A ship that, on further analysis, belongs to a certain Mandalorian."

Din swore under his breath.

"That can mean only one thing. You have lied to me. And that is a very dangerous thing to do."

The man in the recording lowered his head and shook it.

"I didn't want it to come to this. Really, I didn't. But now I see that I have no choice."

And even though it was a recording, the man seemed to make direct eye contact with Omera.

"Give over the Mandalorian and the asset he carries with him. Or would you rather get your daughter back one limb at a time?"

Din moved just in time to catch Omera as her legs gave out beneath her, lowering her to the ground and supporting her against his chest. Though her eyes remained locked on the hologram, she had gone as limp as if she had fainted completely away. Perhaps she would have preferred that to this stubborn consciousness.

The man smirked without humor, as if he knew exactly the effect he had just caused.

"You have twenty-four hours. Consider your choices."

The man looked off to the side, at something out of view.

"It would be a shame, wouldn't it? She's a pretty one."

The hologram fizzled out, the transmitter dropping to the forest floor. The organic glow and quiet sparkling of the fire was left in its place.

Something roiled in the back of Din's skull, crackling with electricity, almost blinding with intensity. It hissed, like a pot of water just on the edge of boiling over, droplets splashing into the embers below. The only thing that cut through was a young voice:

"Well? Somebody grab him!"

Nobody moved, still stunned.

"Are you serious?" Arten continued, shaking his head. "You would protect this stranger over Winta?"

"That's not the case," one man spoke up. "I don't necessarily like him here either, but–"

"But what?"

"They all know better than to try it." Din's voice was deathly still.

"Are you threatening us?" A quaver in Arten's voice betrayed his nerves–whether it was from adrenaline or fear that the Mandalorian would demonstrate the truth of that statement remained unclear.

"No."

Din made sure Omera could sit up on her own before standing to his full height.

"I was stating a fact. Trust me, kid. You'll know when I'm threatening."

One of the elders, Arten's grandmother, spoke up.

"Please, both of you. There has to be some other way to resolve this where we don't save one life by putting another at risk."

"But Grandmother, Winta doesn't have time for us to sit and think about it. We need to act now!"

A couple of voices around the edges of the group began talking among themselves, arguing with one another about the choices that lay before them. The voices grew louder, and louder still, until Arten's broke above the tide.

"They're not even after him, anyway! They're after the kid!"

The finger Arten pointed at the child may as well have been a blaster. Din pulled his blaster so fast that the firelight barely had a chance to glance off of it.

"Try it."

The voices of the village became a cacophony as everyone bolted out of the line of fire. People were shouting, screaming at Din to put the blaster down, for Arten to stand down and shut up, for everyone to please be quiet and just _think_ –

" _Enough_!"

Every voice fell silent as every face turned to Omera. Her shoulders were sloped and her legs still seemed unsteady, but the shadows that the fire cast around her made her seem taller, more fearsome, powerful than she ever was in the daylight. Her features were wracked with violent emotion, and the sight cut to Din's core in a way nothing else ever had.

"In case you've all forgotten, this is _my_ daughter we're talking about– _mine_!" Her hand beat at her heart. Someone came to her and tried to put a hand on her shoulder, but she jerked away. "She is my blood, my flesh, my tears; she is my _life_. And she is not served by this fighting, and instigation–" a look made of daggers shot at Arten–"and these threats!"

Din's hand slowly lowered under Omera's pointed gaze.

Omera's breath started to come slower. She swallowed hard, her face regaining some semblance of control.

"I am going to take the Mandalorian," she said, calmer, "and we are going to get Winta back. If we take out the Imperials while we're there, well then, that's just fine. No one has to be sold out. No one has to die. All I ask," she finished, casting her gaze around the crowd, "is that Winta has something to come home to."

With that, Omera turned and slung her pack over her shoulder, then crossed around to the other side of the fire where the children sat, stunned and a little frightened of the grown-ups around them. She scooped up Din's child and balanced him on her hip as easily as if she was his mother. She turned toward the path to the old village, pausing to look over her shoulder.

"Are you coming or aren't you?"

It took a moment for Din to regain his senses enough to move, and his tread was slow beside her as they stepped into the darkness.

/////

They made it a few miles into the woods before Din noticed Omera's steps starting to stumble. Neither of them had spoken since leaving. Din wasn't sure how to broach the subject of stopping, but he knew that Omera was going to be resistant to it, at the very least.

Just ahead of him, Omera tripped, catching herself before she hit the ground. Din dropped to a knee next to her, taking the child.

"You okay?"

"Fine."

She stood back up, but nearly fell again. Din grabbed her arm as she caught herself against a tree with her other arm.

"Omera..." he started. "I think we need to stop–"

"No."

Din sighed impatiently.

"Listen. You're no good to her dead."

Omera flinched, and Din immediately regretted his phrasing. _Bad bedside manner._

"Sorry."

"Din, I'm fine."

"No, you're not. With what we're about to do, you need as much strength as you can get."

Omera shook her head, refusing to look at him. But, to his surprise, she guided herself down to the forest floor, leaning her back against a tree.

"Ten minutes."

It wasn't much, but it would be enough for now. Din sat down across from her and let the conversation drop. One of his hands found the child's right ear and stroked it as the child nestled into his chest. Soon, the baby was asleep, snoring slightly.

A gasp from in front of him brought his gaze to Omera. She was fiercely wiping under her eyes, and even in the darkness, Din could see her trembling.

"You don't need to do that."

"Yes, I do," she said, her voice tight with the effort of control.

"Why?"

Omera took a steadying breath.

"Because my tears won't help her."

Din supposed that was true, in some respect. But as he sat there, watching her make every effort to make herself look stoic, as if she were ashamed of feeling, the statement felt wrong.

"But it will help you," he said finally.

Omera shook her head.

"I don't need that sort of help."

"You won't do Winta any good by denying yourself."

Omera's hands fell limp into her lap.

"Maybe..."

An idea dawned in Din's head. He wasn't sure if it would make things better or worse, but at least it would be better than the awkward silence that threatened to loom.

"Tell me a story about Winta."

Omera blinked.

"What?"

"Tell me about Winta. Anything you want."

Omera looked him in the eye, and her own shone in the moonlight. She wiped them one last time, took a breath.

"Winta was born the night after Silan died. She should have been born a month later, but my body couldn't hold her in anymore. It was a long labor, and every minute of it, I wished it weren't happening. Every contraction, I wished he were there to hold my hand. But he wasn't. So I pressed on. Not that I had any choice.

"When Winta finally came, she was so _tiny_. You could practically see her heart beating in her chest. She didn't cry. The midwife thought she wouldn't survive the night, but I couldn't let myself believe that. The universe wouldn't be so cruel as to take my husband _and_ my baby from me. I told her to move me closer to the fire. Then she laid Winta on my breast. We lay there for hours. I would talk to her, sing to her, feel her little breaths, the little drumbeat of her heart. She was so perfect, so beautiful. And finally, as the sun came up, she cried. And so did I. And now..."

"I suppose," Omera finished, "I am afraid that if I start crying now, I will never stop."

Something stung at Din's eyes. He came closer to Omera, taking one of her hands, the action already starting to feel routine, like it was always meant to happen.

"Aren't your tears for your daughter worth more than mine?"

Omera's mouth fell open as if to reply, but all that came out was a strangled sob. And the floodgates opened. Omera lunged forward, burying her face in Din's neck, arms wrapping around his shoulders. Din laid the child down next to him and pulled her closer, letting her tears soak into his cowl. He shed his own in silence. Tonight, grief belonged to Omera, not him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now go forth and read some fluff. See you next week. :)


	8. Prepared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "...I don't like the idea of you going in alone."

They reached the Razor Crest before dawn. Thankfully, the ship looked untouched. The Imperials may have noticed Din in the air, but they hadn't found him on the ground. Not yet.

Omera couldn't help the sigh of relief that left her as she sat on one of the crates in the hold. Since their single stop last night, they had managed to cover the same amount of ground as the entire village in much less time. Their pace had been relentless, and for that, Omera was grateful. But at the moment, she was just as grateful for a reprieve, however brief.

Din, however, did not sit next to her. Instead, after setting the child down to stretch his legs, Din immediately opened a metal cabinet and gave it a once-over, taking inventory. He started pulling out drawers, sifting through the contents with a methodical hand.

“So?” Omera asked after regaining her breath. “How are we doing this?”

Din took a minute before replying, kneeling in front of a crate next to Omera and easing it open.

“There are too many Imps for us to make it out of a direct assault. So,” he said, holding up one of the items in the crate, “we're going to have to be covert.”

“Thermal charges.” Omera took the dull silver disc from Din, weighing it in her hand.

“We'll plant some around their perimeter. We grab Winta, and when we're clear, we blow the place.”

Omera shook her head.

“It can't be that simple. If they're in the Blanket, like you said, you and I won't have as much coverage as if they were in the woods. We'll get made before we've set the first charge.”

“Right. We'll need a distraction.” Din turned back to the open cabinet, taking out weapon after weapon, assessing each for their potential.

For Omera, the solution was much more low-tech.

“I'll go.”

Din stopped, hands stilling on a complicated-looking rifle.

“I'll tell them I want to negotiate,” Omera continued, “and that I'll take them up on their offer. Winta, for information.”

Din slowly replaced the rifle on its hooks. Even under his beskar, Omera could see that every muscle in his body had tensed. His gaze seemed fixed on something either inside his helmet or miles underground.

“What is it?”

“...I don't like the idea of you going in alone.”

Omera shifted to face him, though he did not do the same.

“Why?”

Instead of a characteristic silence, or a sigh, impatient or otherwise, Din started a couple of sentences that ended before they could fully form. If Omera didn't know any better, she would have said that he was nervous.

“I just...it's just that, I don't think...”

“Din, look at me.”

The helmet slowly turned towards her. Not for the first time, Omera wished that she could see his face. Though, this time, it was not out of a desire to sate her curiosity; she found that it was much easier to help someone when you could look into their eyes. The eyes, after all, held everything a person could ever need to know.

Omera stood and placed her hand on Din's shoulder. He didn't recoil, and she even felt his shoulder lower, ever so slightly.

“What do you think of me?”

“What?”

“Do you think I've never lied before?”

“Of course not.”

“Do you think that I would give you up?”

Din's hand suddenly jumped to hers.

“No.” It was as definite a 'no' as she had ever heard, although there was something softer in his voice that hinted at a subtext she couldn't afford to sink into. Not now.

“And I know,” Omera continued, “that you know I can handle myself with a blaster.”

Din sighed. His thumb absently traced one of her fingers, and Omera hoped her cheeks hadn't started to redden. This wasn't the time. This couldn't be the time.

“I just don't want it to have to come to that.” Din's voice was low, almost a whisper, almost like he was admitting something to her that he had never said to anyone else. There was that subtext again, floating closer to the surface now.

_He cares for you,_ a small voice said in the back corner of her mind. Omera's mouth tugged up at the corner. Her other hand, of its own accord, found itself tracing the cheek plate of his helmet. Almost imperceptibly, Din leaned into the contact.

“It won't.”

“You don't know that.”

“No. But there are a few things I _do_ know. First,” the hand that had touched his helmet now slid to his chest, right over his heart, “I know that you are more than just a capable warrior—you're a good man.”

Din scoffed and shook his head, but Omera tapped his chest.

“Don't deny that. I also know how much you care for my daughter. Both of those things together tell me that I have no reason to worry on your behalf. And I know that,” Omera's head lowered, “should worse come to worst, you will take Winta to safety, whether or not I'm with you.”

Din fully took the hand on his shoulder, gripping it like a lifeline.

“If you think I'm leaving without you and Winta together, think again.”

“Winta is all that matters to me. If I have to lose my life for her to live, I will give it away freely. And I know,” Omera looked up at him again, “that you would feel the same way for your own son.”

Din looked across the hold. The child was playing with a little ball of twine, making it float before dropping it again, giggling as it bounced and unraveled. Din released a slow, full breath. Omera gently turned his face back to hers.

“But you and I...”

There were so many ways Omera could end that sentence, ways that would have to be reserved for another time—when Winta was back in her arms, when she could take a full breath again, when Din could hold her hand for the sake of holding her hand, if he wanted to.

“You and I won't let it come to that.”

Din paused, then slowly nodded.

“You won't be able to distract all thirty of them on your own. I'll fire a couple of shots in another direction. Draw them out. Give you as much room as possible.”

Omera gave one firm nod. Across the hold, the child had stopped his game and listened, his ears standing still, his eyes bright, focused on his father's hand as it held on to the kind woman's. The child decided that he liked her very much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little something soft to come down from last chapter. Let me know what you all think. See you next week. :)


	9. Nerve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In her mind's eye, she saw beskar covering her, bright silver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! Chapters are going to be a bit longer from here on out as we head into the Big Bad. Get comfy and remember: I promised a happy ending, and a happy ending I will give you.

The sun was a bloody thumbprint low on the eastern horizon when Din and Omera set out from the Razor Crest, but it soon disappeared under a quickly-gathering curtain of grey clouds. It was going to rain. Omera could smell it on instinct—the smell of wet moss, of mud gathering as the krill ponds flooded: all minerality and stale fish. She could feel it, too. Her bones echoed the raindrops that were soon to come.

_Please_ , she thought, to no one in particular, _please, hold off. Just until we're through this._

Din had taken the lead, carrying the child with him. There had been nothing for it, really. As loath as both of them had been to bring the child, they couldn't very well leave him alone on the ship. Din told her what had happened last time he decided to do so, and justifiably didn't want to repeat that experience. Better the child be in their sight than risk him either wandering off or being found by the wrong people. Strapped firmly across his back, the child napped, eyes blinking open every so often before he snuggled back in. Memories of Winta in a similar situation, slung across her back or her breast as she worked the krill ponds, surfaced and gripped Omera's heart in its fist.

_Please. Keep my Winta safe until I'm there with her._

The child made a little fussy noise ahead of her. Before she could get to him, Din's hand came over his shoulder. He almost instinctively knew exactly where the child's head was and gave it a reassuring pat. That gesture alone calmed the child, and he nuzzled into the touch. She almost thought she heard Din shush under his helmet.

_Keep my family safe._

The thoughts in Omera's head quieted in the wake of this last request. Why was it so comfortable to call Din Djarin her family? Why was it so easy to imagine the four of them together, her and this kind Mandalorian holding their children and each other as the night fell? It would be so beautiful to be held again. She could still feel the echo of Din's arms around her, and wondered what it would feel like if Din held her in other places, in other times—briefly placing a hand on her back as they worked side by side, holding her waist and drawing her in, embracing her in bed as the sun came through the cracks around the shutters of their hut.

_Her_ hut. Omera shook her head. She was getting ahead of herself. Who was to say that Din would ever reveal one of his hands, much less take off the armor which seemed forged into his skin? But more imperatively, who was she to assume that Din's recent affections weren't out of pity or obligation? Omera had had more people try to touch her in these past three days than any time in her life, save when Silan died and Winta was born. Grief was a light that pulled the moths in, spreading their arms as they came. It was instinct. Who was she to say that Din was not simply performing his duty as anyone else?

But Din was not just anyone. His compassion did not come empty, anonymous, rehearsed. Din's existence seemed to hinge on sincerity—ironic, for someone who covered his face.

“I didn't answer you earlier.”

Omera looked up. Din had stopped ahead of her. The trees were starting to thin—they were almost there.

“What do you mean?”

“You asked me what I thought of you.”

Omera stood level with him now, shoulder-to-shoulder.

“I did...It was more rhetorical than anything.”

Din took a deep breath.

“I trust you more than...well, anyone. I think you're—”

He stopped himself.

“I think you're...good.”

Omera couldn't help but smile. Din clearly didn't compliment people often, which made it all the more meaningful. 'Good' became the best word she'd ever heard, and it almost made her forget the moments that were coming.

“Thank you. I think you're good, too. In many ways.”

Din sighed, evidently in relief. He fidgeted with his holster and pulled his blaster with his off hand, aiming it toward the ground.

“Right. This is where we split. Wait a few minutes after you hear the shots.”

The muscles clenched in Omera's body as they remembered what lay ahead. She felt the weight of the holster hidden under her apron, heavier than usual. She could practically feel the blaster warming up, ready to fire. She felt something else, too. A hand on her shoulder, turning her. And suddenly her vision was steel-colored as something cool came to rest on her forehead. His helmet. He was resting his forehead against hers. Omera's eyes closed as one of his hands cupped her jaw, his forefinger tracing the space just behind her ear, the touch electric and rough with the fabric of his gloves. And as soon as it started, it was over. By the time Omera opened her eyes, all she could see of Din was his back as he moved out of her line of sight.

Somehow, every nerve in Omera's body felt exposed. Every whisper of wind felt like a roar; every misty drop that fell from the sky fell with the weight of a monsoon. The world seemed to be holding its breath, and inside that breath, she stood, every inch of her body and soul as sensitive as if she had been naked. One moment more. She would allow herself one moment more in this vulnerability. Her daughter lay before her. Her family lay before her. And for their sake, she, too, must wear armor.

One shot. Two. Three.

Wait a few minutes.

In her mind's eye, she saw beskar covering her, bright silver.

A breath in. Released. Another one. Another.

_You are protected. You must protect your family. Your bones are beskar, your blood is steel, your nerves are nothing. Winta needs you to play your part. You must play your part._

Omera did not hear her own steps as she approached the encampment, did not hear the voices of the troopers as they raised their blasters at her. She knew what they asked. She drew her lips tight, narrowed her eyes into daggers.

“I've come to negotiate.”

/////

From the moment Vares set eyes on the woman, he knew that she hated him. True, that could have been informed by the fact that he had kidnapped her child. But even without that context, Vares knew that set of the jaw, the expression in the eyes. He recognized her. He didn't always recognize the people he hurt, but he recognized the print of his blaster hilt across her cheek, starting to blossom blue under her eye.

“I hoped you would come.” Cordial.

“I had no choice.” Venomous.

Vares leaned back in his chair, getting a better look at the woman.

“What's your name?”

“Doesn't matter. Where is my daughter?”

Vares huffed.

“All business, then.”

Vares stood from his chair, taller than the woman by at least a head. Her eyes never left his. He could feel her trying to stare him down, shrink him into nothing. It would not work.

“Where is the Mandalorian?”

“Where is my daughter?”

“Let me guess. You won't give me information until I give you your child?”

“You're smarter than you look.”

The stony expression on her face hadn't changed once, and if Vares hadn't seen her move, he would have thought her face was carved into that form permanently. Vares's eyebrow quirked. He had to hand it to her—she was playing the game. It was unfortunate she had chosen the wrong side. Vares signaled, and one of the troopers launched a fist into her stomach. She gasped, catching herself on a hand as she fell to her knees. He crouched next to her as she coughed.

“I am the one who made this offer,” he said, tone even and quiet, “and I will decide who gets what they want first.”

The woman sucked in a breath and met his eyes again. They were watering, but no less resolute. She made to stand, fingertips spreading into the earth. Vares put a hand on her back to keep her down, but she jerked away, rocking back on her heels.

“Don't touch me.”

Vares's hand darted out and clutched her neck just under her chin. He applied pressure, feeling her throat work under his hand, like some strange, pulsing creature. And still, her eyes met his.

“I will touch what I want.”

Vares looked up at a trooper without moving his head.

“Bring the girl.”

A new color came across the woman's face—something akin to hope. The troopers turned and left. When they were alone, Vares released the woman's throat, taking satisfaction in how hungrily she gasped for air. He stood, and the woman stayed crouched on the ground, still regaining her bearings.

“I respect you.”

The woman laughed without humor.

“I do. Truly. It took courage for you to make this choice. I'm sure this Mandalorian endeared himself to you somehow.”

The woman shook her head.

“He's a Mandalorian. They aren't exactly known for being endearing. I value my daughter's life more than the life of some stranger, and the...whatever it was that he carried with him.”

In spite of himself, Vares's interest piqued. Moff Gideon had been vague about his mission, perhaps for a purpose. But Vares was only human, and some disloyal part of him wanted to know exactly what he was killing for.

“And what is he carrying with him?”

The woman met his eyes, shaking her head.

“Some strange creature...I have no idea what it was. I've never seen anything like it before. An ugly little thing. I don't see why it should cause so much trouble.”

“That is above both of us, I think. Do you know where he was taking it?”

The woman lowered her head as if trying to remember some long-forgotten fact.

“He said something about going back to the Mandalore system. I can't remember exactly which planet, but he said something about...belonging somewhere.”

The Mandalore system. It should have made sense—a Mandalorian returning to Mandalore. But there hadn't been much activity in the Mandalore system after the fall of the Empire. It was strange indeed; a lone, seemingly rogue Mandalorian was returning to his ancestral place. Vares's mind went to the one place it could think to go: revolution, a new resurgence of an old rival, both to the Republic and the Empire. But his thoughts soon eased. A new Mandalorian empire couldn't rise from one warrior and an ugly pet. They would be stopped—by him, in the best case.

The troopers returned, one of them carrying the little girl over his shoulder. He knelt and dropped her inelegantly to the ground at Vares's feet. She did not wake.

“ _Winta_.”

The woman began to crawl toward Winta, but she was caught by the troopers, grabbing her at her elbows. She reared up against them, rising to her knees, but they strengthened their grip with every move. Vares looked from the woman to the child, pale, still, soaked with rain. Yes. There was certainly some resemblance there. He looked back to the woman. The stoniness had started to crack. Now, it was time to break the wall completely.

“Not yet.”

“I told you what I know, just as agreed. Let me go!”

“And I appreciate your help. Really, I do. But you,” Vares said, kneeling next to Winta, “were not very polite when we first met. That cannot go unacknowledged, can it?”

He knew to expect a response, but the moment he flicked his knife open, the woman swept her leg underneath the trooper to her right. The trooper let go of her arm as he fell. With a right hook to the trooper on her left, the woman's arm was free to draw a blaster from under her apron and aim it between Vares's eyes. The troopers aimed their rifles at her after regaining their balance. But with a motion, Vares directed them to lower their arms.

“Touch her. I dare you.” The woman's hand was unexpectedly steady.

“You've handled one of those before. Interesting.”

“Put the knife away. Now.”

“You won't kill me.”

The woman's eyes narrowed.

“Why wouldn't I?”

“My soldiers would kill you before you fired the shot. And your daughter...Winta, was it?”

The woman smirked.

“I'd like to see them try. With what you've done to me, all of your kind, I could kill a thousand of you.”

Vares chuckled.

“Mother's love. I've always wanted to see it in action.”

Vares looked at the troopers, anonymous behind white and black helmets.

“Go ahead and kill them. I have more.”

The troopers looked at each other in confusion—

A blast from outside. Voices shouting. The woman's face paled as she pulled the trigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go...!


	10. Chaos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a strange sort of song, beats not on drums but on flesh, on armor, ringing and thudding dully against the winds and the wordless voices, her own shushing as Winta and the baby fussed in her trembling arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, Readers and Friends! Some housekeeping before this chapter begins. First, I want to say thank you for reading my story. Your comments and support mean the whole world to me. :) 
> 
> Second, I am undertaking an important senior project in which I am trying to validate fanfiction as a genre. And I can't do it alone. I would love it if you could PM me with the best, most well-written fanfictions in your history, as well as why you love reading and writing fanfiction. It's possible I might quote you in my project :) 
> 
> Third, I've come up with a playlist for this fic that has helped me with my writing, and was wondering if anybody would like to see it so we can all jam out together. It's a lot of soft stuff, mixed with a couple of fight scene setters for flavor.
> 
> There's going to be another chapter tomorrow at 4 p.m. EST, friends—the way this one ends can't just be left for a week.
> 
> And finally, just a brief reminder...this is a happy ending.
> 
> Buckle up.

The child had done what he could; he had acted the lookout and told his father, in his wordless way, that there was a trooper near where he knelt, setting a detonator. And the trooper heard.

The trooper ran at him and Din swung around, jerking his blaster from the holster and firing. One shot—the trooper fell to the ground. Din swore. He finished setting the detonator and darted to where he planned on setting the next one. He was almost done. Just a couple more—

Two troopers came around the barracks, opening fire. The blasts ricocheted off Din's chest plates as he hit them dead-center with his own blaster. He needed to find shelter. Fast. Even though he had distracted a substantial number of troopers by drawing them into the woods, this conflict would draw them back in. Where was Omera?

Din heard shots inside a shelter near where he crouched.

_No_.

/////

The blast hit Vares in the chest with a dull ring, dropping him to the ground. Omera ducked under the crossfire, shooting one trooper and knocking the other to the ground with a hit to the back of the knee, killing him with another blast to the head.

“ _Omera!_ ”

Omera whipped around to the sound of her name from outside the shelter.

“Din! Are you all right?”

More blasts from outside. He needed cover _now_.

Omera ran to the back of the shelter and slid open one of the window slats just enough to fit her blaster muzzle through. Three troopers were coming at Din—then two, one dropping as she took him down. Din dispatched the other two, nimbly maneuvering between his blaster and flamethrower.

“Get in here!”

Din came careening around the corner as the other troopers in the barracks sprang into action. One came running at him, firing wildly, blasts glancing off Din's beskar until he dropped with a blast from the Mandalorian's pistol.

The door of the bunker slammed open, and Omera turned to face Din, but found herself facing two troopers instead. One leveled a punch to her face, but Omera ducked just in time to avoid it. Up came her blaster muzzle, just under the brim of the trooper's helmet. One blast—both troopers dropped. Din was shutting the door now, bracing himself against it as the lock clicked. Omera stepped over the bodies toward the now-disheveled desk, taking the chair and ramming it under the handle.

A blink-quick second of stillness. The door rattled for a moment, and was still.

“...Mama?”

Omera turned, then let out a sob of relief when she saw Winta's eyes blinking sleepily back at her. She took a lunging step toward her daughter—

The world around them jolted. Omera fell to her hands and knees, almost immediately lifted by another tremor. Winta whimpered and Omera crawled over to her, pulling her into an embrace as they were shaken a third time.

Din slid open one of the window slats, aiming his blaster through the gap and firing.

“They're trying to tip us over!”

Omera scrambled to her feet, grabbing the first blaster she could. An Imperial model, but she quickly figured out how it worked—point the firing end, pull the trigger. She went to the opposite side of the door, aiming her blaster out of a window. A trooper stood just under it, not even noticing that he had a blaster aimed at his head. An awkward angle to be sure, but the shot was made anyhow, and the trooper fell. They mowed through the troopers at the front of the bunker, soldiers scattering and falling like dice on a game table. Soon the tamped-down grasses of the camp were interspersed with patches of smooth white armor.

There was still pounding on the sides of the bunker—the blind spots. There was no way to hit them from where Din and Omera held their positions.

“I'm going out there.”

“Din, no!”

Din quickly removed the pack that held the baby to his back and gave it to Omera.

“I'll be back. I promise.”

The chair was knocked out of the way, the door unlocked, opened, and Din disappeared, closing the door behind him. The sounds of chaos echoed from outside and Omera wanted nothing more than to be beside Din, keeping him safe.

“Mama!”

Omera went back to Winta and cradled both her daughter and the baby in her arms as the fight continued outside. It was a strange sort of song, beats not on drums but on flesh, on armor, ringing and thudding dully against the winds and the wordless voices, her own shushing as Winta and the baby fussed in her trembling arms. A climactic moment—then silence. Omera's heart clenched, and she fell silent, too. One beat, two. Then a wave of relief as Din came back through the door, coming for her.

Din knelt and brought a hand up to Winta's face with a tenderness he usually reserved for his own child.

“You're back.” Winta's voice was so like her mother's, raw and quiet, that Din couldn't help but let out a little laugh.

“I couldn't stay away.”

Din looked up at the same time as Omera, and both seemed to have the same thought: _finally_. Omera held the children a little tighter, and Din's arms pulled them all in. There was that coolness on Omera's forehead again, and now that she anticipated the contact, she leaned in, taking her first true breath in days. She felt Winta snuggle deeper into the embrace as if she could fall asleep right then and there, not simply because she was exhausted, but because she was surrounded by everything that made her safe in the world.

Din's breath shuddered from his lungs.

“There'll be more.”

“I know,” Omera breathed against his visor. Din leaned back slowly, hesitant to leave this space they'd made together, in the midst of it all.

“If I can get the rest of the detonators set, we can avoid another firefight.”

Omera nodded.

“Then do it.”

Din stood and strode to the bunker's door, opening it and taking a step out—

Blasterfire.

Din ducked back into the shelter, locking the door behind him.

“There are too many of them coming. We won't be able to hold them all off.”

“What else can we do?”

Din looked the wall of the bunker up and down, testing it with his hand. He nodded and bolted back to Omera.

“This bunker's made of blast-resistant steel. It might be able to hold up if we set off the detonators now.”

“Might.”

“What other choice do we have?”

Omera felt her stomach sicken. She looked back down at Winta and the baby. _Might_. The blaster fire intensified outside.

“Mama, I'm scared...”

Omera's hand stroked Winta's hair, muscle-memory.

“Don't be scared, sweetheart. We'll be safe. The walls will hold.” _Will..._ The things a mother pretends to know to keep her babies safe.

Din nodded, pulling the master fuse out of his belt. He pulled his little family into his arms again, taking one last moment to wish Omera could see his eyes, even though they held most of his own fear, and hit the button.

/////

If you hadn't been there, you wouldn't have believed it. The entire world seemed to explode, dirt and bodies and buildings flying into the air before plummeting back to the earth, lifeless husks. All, except one. The largest of the bunkers, an officer's quarters, you would guess, had been launched into the air by the bombs, just as all the other barracks had been. But instead of falling, it hovered. By the stars, it _hovered,_ just a foot or two off the ground, before suddenly remembering gravity and landing right where it had sat before. If you believed in such a thing, you would say it was magic.

/////

The child collapsed at the same time as the bunker did. His ears fell flat, his big eyes slid closed, and Omera stared at him for a moment before slowly turning her gaze to Din.

“...Is he all right?”

Din nodded.

“I think so.” Still. A little corner of Din's mind ate at him. The child had never done something of this magnitude before...

Omera looked over Din's shoulder at the door.

“Do you think it's safe?”

“Let's find out.”

Omera's arms were still shaking. With a look that asked permission, Din gently took Winta into his arms and stood. Omera didn't fight him on it, instead taking the unconscious child in the crook of her elbow and standing next to him.

The door opened on a plain of destruction. The earth itself seemed to be unstable, as if one step would cause the entire planet to collapse. Troopers—and parts of troopers—were scattered among the rubble, and the bunkers they had inhabited when they were alive were rent into mangled piles of flimsy steel.

“Don't look, Winta,” Din murmured, and Winta obediently buried her face in his neck, tightening her grip around his shoulders. He stepped carefully, and found the ground to be solid. His arms tightened ever so slightly as he walked, one hand coming up to keep Winta's head where it was. Even though she had said she wouldn't look, every child, however frightened, will always be curious.

A shaky breath from beside him. He looked over at Omera as she surveyed the carnage.

“It's over.”

Omera shook her head.

“Something's not right.”

She stepped toward one of the intact bodies, shifting it with her foot. She moved to another whole trooper, crouching to shake his shoulder. No response. She started toward one of the less destroyed barracks, peeking into one of the doors. Din watched as she went along like a bird picking among the grass. She came back out of the door, looked past Din at the bunker they had left. Her eyes flew wide.

“ _Din!_ ”

Din turned. He hardly registered the lone survivor in the officer's uniform raising a knife until it was flying towards him, and Winta jolted in his arms as the knife clanged off of his beskar, dropping, inert and stained, to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, a reminder: this has a happy ending. See you tomorrow for chapter 11. Please don't kill me before that.


	11. Whole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No. Not now. We're this close. Please, we're this close.

Din noticed, vaguely, that Omera was screaming something. One shot rang, then another, and another, and one more for good measure. This last one sounded like it was at point-blank range, but Din didn't look up to check. He knew that Omera had finished what the officer had started. His gaze was locked on Winta's wide eyes, her shallow breath, her mouth gaping in shock, nearly fainting.

“Hey.” His voice sounded like it was echoing down some black passage. “Stay with me, kid.” He knew his voice didn't sound like that—toneless, emotionless, flat. He knew it was more desperate, urgent; that's how it felt in his throat, anyway. “Stay awake.”

A hand grabbed his arm and pulled in the direction of the bunker. And just like that, the spell broke. Every sound was a siren, every inch of ground was violent in its green bruising yellow and brown, and Winta's blood smearing on his silver chest plates was even more startling.

“Stay awake stay awake stay awake.” His voice was alien again, but this time, it wasn't for the sake of distance. This time, it was frantic, resounding in his ears.

_No. Not now. We're this close. Please, we're this close._

They burst into the bunker and Din made a beeline for the bed in the far corner. He laid Winta down carefully, making sure that she wasn't laying on her injured side.

“Med kit,” Omera said, more to herself than to anyone, as she turned and ran back out into the ruins.

Din ripped his gloves off and carefully inspected the wound. It wasn't the worst he'd seen, objectively speaking—not by a long shot. He could have taken a cut that size with little more than a wince. But Winta was smaller. Winta was a child. Winta was already freezing cold under his touch.

She was hyperventilating. He couldn't blame her, really. But he knew it would only lead to more trouble. He brought himself down to level with her face, with her fear, with her tears.

“Winta—Winta, look at me,” Din said, one hand coming up to wipe a tear as it fell, “You need to calm down.”

“It _hurts_!”

“I know. I know it hurts, but we're going to fix it, okay? You're going to be fine.”

“I'm gonna die!” she wept, her eyes screwing up as she shivered, driving tendrils of pain through her wound.

“You are not going to die, you understand me? You're not dying.” Din wasn't sure who he was trying to convince, her or himself, but his voice hardened as he insisted.

Winta's tears came faster.

“You don't know that! You don't know!”

For a moment, everything stilled in Din's head. There was a frightened, wounded child weeping in front of him, afraid that he was lying to her about her life. And all because she could not see him. Not really, anyway. The truth lay in the eyes—everybody knew that—but, of course, Winta couldn't see his eyes. That was wrong. It had to be. It was. It was wrong. It was so very wrong.

And for the first time in his life, almost without considering the action, Din Djarin removed his helmet in the sight of another.

After laying the helmet down, Din's hands came up to cradle Winta's face.

“Winta, look at me.”

Winta immediately stilled as she closed her eyes tight.

“Your...your helmet...”

Din shook his head.

“Never mind about the helmet. Look me in the eyes. It's all right.”

Winta's breathing steadied. She blinked once, twice. Then her watery brown eyes met his.

“You are not going to die.” His voice had taken on a steady timbre—all of his panic was left still buzzing around in the helmet sitting on the floor.

“You're gonna...stay?”

Hell if he knew. Hell if he knew why he'd taken his helmet off. Hell if he knew anything except that Winta and Omera needed him, all of him, right here, right now.

“...As long as I can. At least until you're all better.”

“Please...don't go...”

Winta was starting to lose consciousness. Din looked up at Omera, standing frozen in the doorway, a med kit clutched in her hands. As if snapping out of a trance, she shook her head and bolted toward Din, handing him the med kit. He stood, Omera taking his place. Din flicked the box open. He growled—no bacta. Some gauze and bandaging tape, but the wound was too deep for that to do any good on its own. The only thing left was a cautery. Din's heart fell as he pulled it out, setting the box on the floor.

Din grabbed one of his gloves off of the floor. Not the most sanitary, but it would do the trick.

“Winta,” Din said, “I'm sorry, but this is going to hurt. We have to burn the cut to stop the bleeding. Bite down on this.”

“What?” The panic started to creep back into Winta's voice.

“It'll be over in just a minute, I promise. Your mom and I need you to be brave,  _ ad'ika _ . Can you be brave for us?” The endearment came as easy as breath.

Winta hesitantly nodded. Din placed the glove in her mouth and leaned over to Omera.

“On two.”

Omera nodded, face resolute.

Din stood and reached over, patting Winta's shoulder, holding her down gently.

“Okay, kid. I'm going to count to three. One—two—”

The cautery sparked. Winta let out a blood-chilling scream and it took every effort, physically and mentally, for Din to keep going. He had to lean on Winta's legs to keep her still as she kicked and struggled against him. Though the rest of his body was shaking, he focused all of his attention on keeping the hand with the cautery steady. This needed to be done quickly, or his resolve would crumble, and Winta would suffer even more for his weakness.

It may have taken only about a minute. It may have taken years. But the minute he was able to, Din tossed the cautery to the floor and sat next to Omera. The glove fell out of Winta's mouth, and her cries became even louder. Din felt his heart shatter against his ribcage as his hand came up to stroke her hair.

“There you go Winta, shh, shh—you were so brave, _verd'ika_ , you did so good—it's all right now, you're okay, we're here, we're right here—”

Din had no idea where the words were coming from, why they were coming out of him so quickly, or why and how he was using that tone of voice, that same tone of voice Omera was employing as she kissed Winta's face, murmuring wordless, soothing noises. He felt something hot track down his own face, and only when another track joined it on the other side did he register that he, too, was crying. He didn't bother wiping the tears away.

The three of them sat in this manner until Winta's sobs gave way to whimpers, which gave way to a silence broken only by Din and Omera's ragged breaths.

Din felt Omera's eyes on him before he turned to look at her. She looked at him with such focus, as if she were trying to memorize every inch of his face in case he changed his mind, in case he decided to put the helmet back on forever. One of her slender hands, trembling and wet, came towards him but stopped halfway. She was asking permission. Din's hand caught hers and his mind stopped dead in its tracks. He had forgotten what it felt like to touch someone with his own skin, not the one he had manufactured for himself out of steel and leather and coarse cloth. Slowly, he guided her hand to his cheek. She stayed there for a minute, her thumb stroking a place just under his eye. He tried to commit that motion to memory, but his mind was still stuttering with everything, everything, everything—

Omera's hand slid into his hair as she pulled him in, and the cloth of her dress, the skin of her neck, her breath warm near his ear, finally broke the wall.

And outside the bunker, it finally started to rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a Translations:  
> ad'ika: little one  
> verd'ika: little warrior


	12. Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were so many things he hoped for now.

The roof of the bunker looked exactly the same as it had an hour ago. With a huff, Din gave up on his effort to bore himself to sleep. In fact, he gave up the illusion of trying to sleep altogether. He sat up and let out a quiet groan as each of his vertebrae clicked into place. Sleeping in his armor was never exactly optimal.

His gaze drifted from where he sat in front of the door to the bed across the bunker. Winta had practically disappeared under a pile of blankets that Din had managed to scrounge from the wreckage. Only her face was still visible, pale cheeks starting to regain a hint of color. Her eyes were moving under her eyelids—dreaming. Din hoped for her sake that it was a good dream.

Tucked closely against Winta's back, Omera slept. As he stood up, Din got a better look at her. She curled into herself, uncovered. Din sighed. She had begrudgingly taken a blanket from him last night, but must have given it to her daughter once he turned around. He bent and picked up his cloak, bunched up in an approximation of a pillow. He shook it out to its full length, making sure any dust fell off. As quietly as he could manage, he crept over to the bed. He bent slightly over Winta and softly laid his cloak over Omera. In her sleep, she burrowed into the warmth, until only her eyes were visible. One of her hands twitched minutely where it lay between Winta's shoulder blades.

Din slowly drew his hands back and turned to the child. They'd emptied a trunk and laid him inside, nested in cast-off uniforms. It was a strange thing, seeing him so calm, surrounded by Imperial insignias. Din reached down and stroked one of the child's ears, hoping he would wake, though he knew it was unlikely. He did not. He hardly even moved.

Din shook his head. The child always seemed to be saving his life and taking himself down in the process. The last time he'd done something like what he'd done last night, he held back the fires that would have consumed his father. He'd slept for a few hours after that. After the run-in with the mudhorn, he'd slept for about a day. But this felt different. He'd held an entire small building, and all its contents, including themselves, in the air. It was only for a few seconds, but still. Din hoped he hadn't gone too far.

There were so many things he hoped for now.

Standing up with no small amount of reluctance, Din made his way back toward the door. They'd need food when they woke up.

He opened the door, and the cool air hit him in the face, across his skin. A gasp. He'd almost forgotten. Instinct drove his hand as it darted toward the helmet on the floor, placing it hastily on his head. A sigh of relief, perhaps. Then he stepped out, protected, into the weather.

The raindrops fell on Din like a tin roof, singing different tones on each plate of his armor as he wove in and out of the mangled barracks, searching for rations, other supplies that survived the battle. The day had dawned cold and grey. The residual fires from the explosions had dwindled into embers, and the mist curled around his legs with every step. His thoughts were just as intangible, just as impossible to grasp.

He remembered every detail, every raw fact, of the situation around taking his helmet off —in fact, he was sure he'd never forget the look on Winta's face as long as he lived. But he couldn't figure out _why_. Couldn't he have just talked her down? No...no. She probably hadn't seen a human face in days. Stormtroopers were just as strict about removing their armor. Strange, featureless, black-and-white faces looking at her, or looking past her, speaking in unfamiliar, harsh tones—he wouldn't have blamed Winta for not trusting him from behind his helmet, even if she already knew him.

But what, exactly, did it mean? Din opened an overturned box, taking the two rations inside. He paused. The rain on his armor was starting to become overwhelming. Funny. It had never been that way before. But now, he could hear every drop as it ticked against his helmet as if it were inside his skull. Another breath. Focus. What did it mean? What did taking the helmet off _mean_?

He dropped into one of the barracks, lying on its side. He was grateful for a break from the rain's intrusion. He climbed over toppled cots, keeping his eyes to the floor, looking for anything useful. There was another ration pack, crushed under a footlocker. Crumbled, but still useful. He added it to the little pile he'd already found. He picked over the rest of the remains. Damn. Nothing else. He took a deep breath, the air filling his lungs—he'd never been conscious of what that felt like.

There was the rain again, pelting him like bullets. The thoughts fell back into his head, too. For all the anxiety he'd always had of taking his helmet off, he didn't feel like he had betrayed anything. It had felt natural. It had felt real. And he still felt like himself, but more... _more_. How could this be wrong?

And yet. He knew that, should any stranger see his face, he could be identified. There would be no escape for him, should he need to. He would put himself in danger, as well as his—family.

Din released a breath, short, aggressive. There. He'd finally said it. Family. _Family_. In taking his helmet off, Omera and Winta had become irreversible members of his clan. His father once told him that, back before the Great Purge, a warrior could remove his armor in front of their clan. It was all right. It would be, anyway. Wouldn't it? An idea, a black vine spiraling in the corner of his mind: what if she changed her mind? Would she be his clan forever? When she saw what he was really capable of, what he would do for credits, would she change her mind, turn away when he leaned in? And the rain pounded on his armor, on his helmet, in his head, in his bones—

The helmet was gone. Without another thought.

Din blinked. What was falling on him wasn't violent. It wasn't bullets. It was...well, it was rain. Din turned his face to the clouds. The raindrops were touching him. They weren't hitting, or prodding, or stabbing. They had no designs on hurting him or telling anyone this secret, this moment he was sharing with them. They were just touching him, like Omera when she set her hand against his face, when she ran her fingers through his hair. The rain ran through his hair, too, down his face, down his neck, soaking into his flight suit, slipping under his armor. He breathed, and again, he was conscious of how his ribs expanded, how the cool air transformed, dissipated into warmth when he let it out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry that a.) this chapter's late, and b.) that it's quite a bit shorter than the previous chapters! I've been in the process of moving back home from college due to the Virus That Shall Not Be Named, and it has been an absolute Stress Bomb. Not to worry--the next chapter will be longer. And will actually have dialogue. And a little somethin' else ;). As always, let me know what you think, and I'll see you next week. :)


	13. Keldabe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "All I've ever known is how to hold my own, but now I want to hold you, too." Eurydice to Orpheus, Hadestown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise...Merry Covid ;)

Omera watched Din like he was an animal she didn't want to spook. And, really, he was—not in the sense of his being animalistic, but in the sense of his always being on the alert, eyes on the current task, but ears perked, constantly surveilling for dangers, for predators. She certainly hoped he didn't see her as a predator, especially now that his face was bare. Either way, this was Din in his natural state. Somehow, a stranger.

She wasn't sure what she'd expected. In the moments where she allowed herself to wonder, she'd never been able to put together a composite face. She'd tried to guess just based on his voice, but that was a fool's errand. But now, she realized that his voice suited him perfectly. Of course he looked like this. Of course his hair was dark, chronically matted. Of course he kept his face close-shaven. What else could he have been? While his helmet was all sharp angles, Din's face was softer curves. Where the helmet was flat and impersonal, his face had definition—the distinctive arch of a nose, the curl of a mouth, two rich black eyes set below a brow. Where the helmet was fearsome, Din's face was set in an expression that Omera could only call kind. He was so completely, so simply, so wonderfully human.

He turned toward the bed and Omera closed her eyes again. She wasn't certain why she was being so shy. It wasn't like they hadn't looked at each other before. Last night, he had looked into her eyes as if she had all the answers to every question, every uncertainty that was whirling around in his head. His own eyes were hungry, not in a visceral or carnivorous way. He looked like he could drink in every color, every shadow, every line on her face, and never be satisfied. She almost didn't want him to be satisfied.

Well. The silence had to be broken somehow. And Omera realized she hadn't eaten in a day, at least. Her stomach grumbled as she sat up, feigning waking.

/////

Din's gaze snapped over to the bed, then turned away almost as fast, returning his attention to the fire.

“Morning,” he muttered. “Found some rations.”

“Good,” Omera replied, voice low. She crept off the foot of the bed, making sure not to wake Winta. Her step was light and slow as she came to Din's side, sitting next to him. Din kept his eyes down, trying not to notice how, even in the dreary, begrudging light slipping through the open windows, Omera was beautiful, or how full the silence was and how unprepared he was to be comfortable in it. Neither could he figure out how to break it. And so he sat, occupying himself by stirring up a fire that was already blazing.

“Are you all right?”

There, again, was another new thing to get used to: someone actually caring about what was going on in his head.

“Why?”

“It's just...we didn't really talk last night.”

“About?”

“The fact that I know what your face looks like.”

The hand that was stirring the fire stopped, then resumed. Din remained silent. What words did come to mind stalled just before they came into fruition. The words wanted to exist, and Din wanted them to exist. But he didn't have the capacity to bring them into the light.

“Does that mean you're staying?”

Din finally stopped poking at the fire—that excuse had worn thin. There had to be something else, some other way to keep his eyes away from hers, something else to keep him occupied.

“If I stay, they're just going to keep coming. We won't be safe.”

_We_.

“Then what do we do?”

Something in Din's chest twinged.

“I have to leave.”

Omera's head shook in his periphery.

“No. Absolutely not. Not this time.”

“What other choice do I have? It's the only way to keep you three safe.”

“Is it the only way, or is it the only way you want to consider?”

Something—hurt?—shot through his stomach.

“You think I want to leave?”

“No, I just...you can't just leave us again. You can't leave me again. Not after all of this.”

A pause, heavy-laden. Omera sighed, just as heavy.

“You left last time,” Omera continued, “and we still got attacked. We may as well be together in danger instead of driving ourselves insane worrying about each other.”

Din scoffed, shaking his head.

“I'd rather you not be in danger to begin with.”

“Din, I think we're way past that.”

“I...” There was no reply he could give. Earlier that morning, Din had stacked the bodies behind the bunker, and he wondered how many Omera had shot—how many more she would have to kill on account of him. He thought back to the idyll of those first three weeks and wished more than anything that they could, by some miracle, return to those days, the sun warming his armor as he sat beside Omera, watching the children play among the reeds.

Omera's hand covered his where it rested on his knee.

“You may be used to being in danger by yourself, out there in the stars. But now, you don't have to do it alone. Whatever is happening, whoever is after you and your child, we'll see the end of it. Together.”

And finally, Din allowed himself to look at her. If kindness were to take a physical form, Din knew it would look just like this, like Omera's slight smile, like her long, dark hair tucked behind one ear, like her almond-colored eyes, shining with something he had no words for. Here it was—another moment he could never pull back from. Before he could stop himself, he darted forward, pressed his mouth haphazardly to hers, then pulled back just as quickly.

Omera's hand moved slowly to her lower lip. For the first time, her face was unreadable.

“You've never kissed anyone before, have you?” No scorn. No derision. Just curiosity.Still, heat started to rise in Din's face.

“Not—not the way  _ you _ think of it.”

Omera blinked. “What other way is there?”

“ The Mandalorians call it  _keldabe_ ,” he continued, taking her face in his hands. “One warrior places their forehead against another's—” he did so, and how different it was when he met the warmth of her face and not the front of his helmet—“and they share breath together,” he finished, in a whisper.

Omera waited inside that shared breath.

“So we've already kissed, then?”

“Twice.” The word itself trembled.

“This is perfect,” Omera whispered back after a moment. “Take this...take everything this means, everything this feels like...”

Omera's fingertips brushed under his chin, and he was more than willing to be led.

“And shift it just a little lower...”

Her lips met his.

Every muscle in Din's body tightened as he sucked in a breath, sitting so perfectly still, committing the softness, the shape of her mouth against his, to his memory. He felt the hand not currently cupping his jaw drift over his arm, over his shoulder, stopping with a caress against his neck, and her touch untangled every knot in his muscles, his chest, his mind. His own hands fell down her arms, curving around her waist. Her lips moved, ever so slightly, and Din, helpless in a way he'd never felt before—a good way—followed her lead **.**

Din didn't want to let go, but he'd never been good at holding his breath. He backed away, lungs filling again, and emptying with a shaky, quiet laugh.

“I've never heard that before,” Omera murmured. “I think I'd like to hear it again.”

Omera's smile was different somehow, in a way Din couldn't place. He shook his head, dazed.

“This won't be easy,” he said.

“I never expected it to be.”

It would be good, Din supposed, to have someone to talk with on the long hauls between the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was it worth the wait?   
> See you next week at our regularly-scheduled time for the second to last chapter of this first installment :)
> 
> P.s. Already plotting out Book 2. If you want to follow that process, I'll be talking a lot about it on The Bird App @EAReames


	14. Ka'ra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do you want to hear a story?"

The rain had eased into a fine mist long before they set out. Though it would have been ideal to stay a bit longer to give their children a chance to heal, both Din and Omera knew that Vares had been communicating with someone—and that someone was about to become very suspicious. They couldn't risk another dust-up with whatever reinforcements were likely on their way.

The sky had remained a slate grey through their silent trek, but now it was beginning to fade into black between the breaking cloud cover. They needed to find shelter, or, at least, a relatively dry spot to rest. Damn. Din had hoped they'd make it back to the Razor Crest by nightfall. But he knew that neither child was up for that long of a walk.

Still fast asleep, Winta nuzzled into his cowl. The blanket she was covered with prevented her from hitting her head on the cold jaw of his helmet. Even though she'd finally stopped shivering about a mile ago, Din's hand kept rubbing her back, up and down, up and down. He didn't quite know why. Maybe he wanted to take away all semblance of a chill so she wouldn't start shivering again, so that tremor wouldn't jostle the wound, make it hurt worse. Every whimper that day made Din's heart clench in his chest, and he was starting to physically feel it. _Poor thing_ , his mind repeated, _poor thing._

He glanced over at Omera, and the tiny bundle in her arms. The child hadn't made a sound, which Din found almost more unbearable than Winta's intermittent moans. At least he could feel Winta breathing, could tell that she was still alive. But the child looked painfully, unbearably still—even a little pale. Din wasn't prepared for how badly he wanted to take the child from Omera, not out of any distrust, but just to confirm that he was living. In fact, all he wanted now was to draw them all in: his barely breathing child, Winta, and Omera, with a deep purple bruise under her weary eye. How could a desire be so strange and natural all at once?

“It's getting late,” he said, instead of so many other things.

Omera nodded, stopping. She looked around them. They were in the old forest now—mossy, untouched, a flat patch of grass implanted beneath the branches of ancient, enormous trees. She moved toward the largest, crouching and testing the ground near the roots.

“Dry enough,” she said, laying the child carefully on the ground. She turned to Din, taking the blanket that was covering Winta. She laid it out on the forest floor as Din slowly knelt, adjusting so that he could lay Winta down. After gently doing so, he removed his cloak, folded it neatly, and placed it under her head. Her eyelids fluttered ever so slightly, then stilled.

“Right,” Din said, standing back to his full height. “I'll try and scrounge up some firewood.”

Omera stood, too.

“No, I'll go. You need to rest.”

“I'm fine, Omera.”

Omera shot him a look.

“You didn't sleep at all last night. I saw you.”

Din avoided her gaze.

“That's beside the point.”

Omera stepped closer to him, maneuvering so she was meeting the eyes behind the visor.

“Remember a couple of days ago, when I told you I was fine and you saw right through it? That goes both ways. You don't have to do everything.”

Din heard one of her hands stroke down the side of his helmet, the soft extended ring of skin against beskar. He reached for her other hand and brought it up to the other side. He wanted to give her this chance, and thankfully, she took his meaning without his having to say anything. He'd never been good with words. The weight of the helmet lifted, and he lost sight for a moment before it returned, along with the cool forest air. Omera smiled, tucking the helmet under one arm.

“Your hair's a mess,” she joked, and Din couldn't help but smile. She reached her free hand into his hair and tousled it, and his eyes blinked closed. It felt _good_. Against his will, the exhaustion of the past two days started to drape over his shoulders. Omera seemed to see it fall, and her smile turned knowing.

“Rest. I won't be far, I promise.”

Din nodded. Omera handed him his helmet, putting her hands in her apron pockets and walking away, casting a glance back at him as he watched her go.

He sighed. Sure, he would sit here, watch the kids. But he wasn't going to fall asleep. He surely had more resolve than that. But the ground was far softer than it had any right to be as he sat between the children, and as his back hit the tree trunk, covered in velvety moss, his eyes slid closed, and he sank into sleep.

/////

Screaming, red through the blackness.

Din's eyes flew open, his hand scrabbling for his blaster. His helmet. Where was his helmet? Who screamed? Why the hell had he let himself fall asleep?

Check surroundings. Fire, orange, crackling, darkness, stars peeking through branches. Woman, Omera, holding little girl, rocking back and forth. Little girl, Winta, crying, awake. Winta, awake. Winta was awake.

Din put the blaster back in the holster and stopped chastising himself. He inched over to Omera.

“What happened?”

“Nightmare.”

Winta continued to sob, burying her face in Omera's neck.

“ _Mama..._ ”

“It's okay, sweetheart. It wasn't real,” Omera murmured.

“Yes, it _was_...they grabbed me, I felt them, they were _real_... I tried to run, but—but I couldn't—they didn't—they didn't let _go_!”

After a few long minutes of Omera soothing her, Din took one of Winta's hands from where they lay in her lap. He had an idea and wanted to follow it before his impulse abandoned him.

“I have nightmares, too.”

Winta's crying eased a little as she turned slightly, looking at him with one eye.

“You—you do?” she hiccupped.

Din nodded.

“Mm-hmm. And I had them when I was your age. They were bad. Really bad. And they felt like they were really happening. But when I woke up in the middle of the night, my dad was always there. And he always told me a story to get me back to sleep. An old story that his father told him, and his father before him, as long as anybody can remember. Do you...do you want to hear it?”

It felt absurd. It felt clumsy. But Winta turned her face fully to him. Shyly, her head inclined. Din adjusted himself again, taking her other hand. Then he began to tell the story.

/////

A long time ago, there was a little girl who lived in a village on the edge of the woods with her mother and father. Every day, she would play in the trees while her parents worked on their farm. One day, though, she wandered too far into the woods and became lost. The forest became dark as the sun fell; the shadows grew longer, started to move. And the little girl became frightened. She found the very tallest tree in the forest and climbed it to keep away from the monsters she knew hid around every tree. She climbed and climbed until she reached the very top branch.

And there she sat and cried. She missed her mother and father, and her village. She was so scared that she would never see them again. And then, she heard a voice, quiet in her head: “Look up, child. The _ka'ra_ will guide you.” The little girl looked at the sky, and all of the warriors of the past looked back at her from the stars. And she felt their courage filling her up, from the soles of her feet to the very top of her head. And she knew that she would make it home, safe and sound.

She looked out over the top of the forest and saw the light of her village off in the distance. She climbed down the tree and ran toward that light, unafraid of the creatures and monsters in the shadows, until she heard two voices calling her name. Her mother and father came running through the trees. They swept her up in their arms and held her tight as they carried her all the way home.

/////

“Whatever monsters are in your head, Winta, have a long fight ahead of them. You are a _warrior_. You draw your strength from all the warriors that came before you. And when you wake up, you have your mom and me to hold you and keep you safe.”

“And little brother?”

Din blinked. He had forgotten that that was her nickname for the child. The first time he heard Winta call the child 'little brother' while they played, it startled him. He worried that they were getting too comfortable, that they were getting too close to the people they would eventually have to leave. But now...maybe, Din thought, the child could use a big sister.

“And little brother,” he replied.

“Promise?”

Din nodded, tucking a stray hair away from Winta's face.

“I promise, _ad'ika_.”

Winta reached out to him, and without a thought, Din took her into his arms. Omera came close, tucking one arm behind Din's back and wrapping the other around her daughter.

A tiny hand tugged on Din's sleeve. The child was sleepily blinking at him. Din smiled. Relief was a feeling he was starting to like.

“Hey, kid.”

Keeping one arm wrapped around Winta, he scooped up the little one, tucking him into the crook of his arm. He'd missed that weight, that feeling of a tiny living thing connected to him.

“Well? What do you think?” Din asked. And not for the first time, he wished the child could talk, could tell him exactly what he thought of this growing family he now found himself a part of, what he thought of seeing his father's face for the first time, lit from the side by firelight. But the child only smiled, cooed, one little hand taking Din's finger. Din breathed—truly breathed.

_Yes_ , his mind repeated. _Yes. Yes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando-lore note: the ka'ra were an ancient Mandalorian myth. It was said that the stars in the sky were the souls of the fallen rulers of Mandalore, and that they guided the living warriors until they joined them in death.
> 
> As always, let me know what you think in the comments, and I'll see you all next week for the final chapter of In the Aftermath. :) 
> 
> ad'ika: little one


	15. Uncertainty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The picture of the vibrant little girl she'd always known transposed itself for a moment over the resigned, sober child that sat beside her now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So as it turns out, this chapter didn't feel right as one unit. I made the decision to split it into two. Hope you all don't mind. :) As always, let me know what you think, and I'll see you next week for the *real* last chapter.

Omera bent to blow into the ashes again. The fire had died sometime in the night, with a lack of fuel and attention, leaving it a pile of grey powder over a few vague orange veins. It was those veins she needed to encourage.

Even as she closed her eyes, ashes flew into them. She gasped, the heels of her palms digging into her eyes to rub the ashes away. She blinked rapidly, letting innocuous tears wash away the rest.

A purr from beside her. Omera turned, still squinting. The child extended his tiny hands, holding a dry twig, his ears raised in triumph. Omera was, for a moment, reminded of when Winta was small, when everything was untouched; she would cradle a krill or pebble in her hands as if it were something precious, undiscovered by any other person. Then she would give her little treasures to her mother. She didn't keep much of it for herself.

Omera took the twig.

“Thank you,” she said, and the child responded, tilting his head to the right. She wondered if the child's movements had meaning.

“Can you find me more?”

The child dutifully turned and toddled off, eyes to the ground.

“Not too far,” she warned, and again was taken back to when Winta was much smaller, before she learned boundaries and rules, when she would have gladly been lost in the trees if it meant finding some nut or stone to bring back with her.

How easy she found it to mother this child, too. Even as she added his little offering to the dead fire, she kept her eyes on him, wondering how she might call him back if he went too far. He didn't have a name yet, after all. She couldn't just say “hey,” or “you.” She also couldn't see herself saying “little brother.” That seemed to be reserved for Winta and the other children. “Son?” Now that gave her pause. What was he to her, now that she knew his father's face? In fact, what, exactly, was Din to her now? “Lover” felt too suggestive, “husband” too presumptuous. Nor was he merely “friend.” He simply _was_. They simply _were_. Why wasn't there a word for being, only being?

“Hi, Mama.”

Omera's gaze shifted to her one certainty—“daughter.”

“Hi, baby.” Winta tried to sit up, wincing. Omera reached over to help her, leaning her against the trunk of their shelter tree. Winta blinked, bleary-eyed. She looked around her, taking in the day.

“Where's Mando?” she asked.  _What should she call him now?_

“He went to find us some food,” Omera replied as her hands took Winta's of their own accord. “Did you sleep any better?”

Winta nodded.

“Good.” When would the morning-bird girl return?

Omera was thankful to hear familiar footsteps behind her. She looked over her shoulder and saw Din coming through the trees. Two small pink shapes dangled from one hand. He'd dressed his kill before coming back, and Omera thanked the stars for that. She'd always been a bit squeamish about that sort of thing. In his other hand was a large bundle of kindling. Here he was, providing again.

“You had luck,” Omera called, standing and meeting him as he came. He nodded—he was wearing the helmet again. Just in case, she assumed.

“Found a nest,” he replied, gesturing with what she assumed must have been squirrels. He handed the stack of firewood to Omera. There was a little chirping noise at their feet; the child was dragging a stick longer than his entire body. A huff of laughter came from under the helmet as Din crouched, taking the stick, passing it into his other hand, and scratching the child's head.

“Thanks, kid.”

“He's a good little helper,” Omera commented as the child grabbed for the squirrels. Din moved them out of reach.

“No, we're cooking these. We can't all eat things raw,” Din told the child as he straightened up and moved toward the dead fire. Noticing that Winta was awake, he greeted her as he sat, pulling the helmet off with one hand.

“Morning, kid. How're you feeling?”

Winta shrugged, noncommittal.

“I don't know.”

“Any better?” he pressed.

Winta hesitated, taking inventory.

“A little,” she replied after a moment.

“Good. That's good.” Din made eye contact with Omera as she revived the fire. He'd noticed the change too, to much the same effect.

Winta shifted to look at Din more directly as he skewered the squirrels. A shade of fascination passed over the blankness.

“How'd you get those?”

“I found them.”

Another moment of quiet.

“Torren tried to catch a squirrel once,” Winta said, stopping before she spoke too much.

_Yes_ , Omera felt,  _keep talking._

“Really?” Din asked, encouraging. “Did he do it?”

“Almost. He's not really good at hitting things with rocks. I felt kinda bad for the squirrel. It looked scared.”

“Well,” Din said with an awkward shrug, “these squirrels didn't have time to be scared, if that makes you feel better.”

The smallest smile fluttered across Winta's face.

The fire was blazing again, and Din stuck the meat over it. Omera turned to her pack, digging through it for a moment before pulling out her canteen. She opened it and passed it to Winta, who gulped its contents greedily before remembering herself and handing it back. She wiped her lip with the sleeve of her dress.

“Mama, when are we going home?”

Omera took a breath. She'd known this was coming. She took one of Winta's hands again.

“Winta...we aren't going home.”

Whatever smile had been about to surface disappeared.

“What?”

Omera sighed. “Our farm, the village—it was destroyed, sweetheart. It's not there anymore.”

“But...but is everyone okay?”

“They're all fine. They're trying to find another place to settle.”

Winta looked at Din as he knelt by the fire. 

“Are you gonna stay with us?”

Din glanced at Omera before settling his gaze on Winta.

“Well...yes and no,” he said. He shoved the spit into the soft dirt so the meat still hung over the fire and sat on Winta's other side. “We're all staying together,” he continued. “But...”

Omera sensed the baton being passed back to her, and she took it.

“...We're leaving, Winta.”

The words took a minute to sink in—they hardly seemed to register at all.

“We're leaving.” Not so much a question as a reiteration, taking the concept she'd been given and putting it in her own words. And in that moment, it hit her. Her lower lip started to wobble with the effort of holding herself together. “We're leaving,” she repeated, then elaborated. “Why? Why can't we go home? I wanna go home!”

“I know,” Omera said, trying to keep her own voice steady. “I know you do. But sweetheart, we can't.”

“Why not?”

Omera paused, trying to figure out how to explain the situation. 

“Winta,” Din said, taking the burden for a moment, “it would be dangerous for the four of us to stay. The bad guys are going to come back, but this time, they're going to know who they're looking for.”

“What?” Winta's voice grew panicked. 

“But we're going to stay together,” Omera interjected. “and we'll be safe.”

“But what about everybody else?”

“They'll be fine. They're far enough away—”

“Then why can't we stay?”

Din put his head down.

“Because little brother and I can't stay,” he said, “and I want to be with you.”

Winta moved her gaze from her mother to Din as he continued.

“I want to make sure you're safe,” he continued, “and I can't do that from off-world. I need to either be with you, or I need you and your mom to be with me. Either way, we need to stick together.”

Winta swallowed, lowering her gaze to her lap.

“You promise we'll be okay?”

“Of course,” Din said.

“And that we'll come back?”

Omera looked across at Din, looking for confirmation. A slight nod.

“Yes. Once all of this is over, we'll come back,” she said.  _But how long will it take? Will she forget and be happy wherever we settle? Or will she keep asking, always asking? Will we come back at all?  
_

Winta took a deep breath in, and out. Then she looked back up at Din.

“Where are we going?”

And once again, Omera was stricken by the weight in her chest. There was pride there, of course—Winta had survived on nothing but her own tenacity, and that was something that Omera would never underestimate—but there was something else lingering under that pride; the picture of the vibrant little girl she'd always known transposed itself for a moment over the resigned, sober child that sat beside her now. 

Din's slight smile cut through the melancholy, reminding her that she wouldn't face this uncertainty alone. None of them would.  


“Anywhere.”  



	16. The Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Last chance."

“What did you do then?”

“Used the jetpack.”

“You _flew_?”

Din nodded, readjusting Winta on his hip. “Mm-hm.”

“What was it like?”

He paused, trying to figure out how to describe it all: the swooping in his stomach as his feet left the ground, the sensation of unfettered motion, the jerk as he was pulled along by the TIE fighter; it had felt like learning to walk again, without using his legs.

“Well,” he finally answered, “do you remember when you were younger, and someone would toss you in the air, then catch you again?”

Winta nodded.

“It felt like that moment when you're about to be caught.”

He looked over at Winta, watching him intently as he told the story. Though she was still pale, her eyes sparkled, and her mouth curled at the edges as she imagined herself in the air.

“Maybe I'll take you along with me when you feel better.” The suggestion had the intended effect—the curl spread into a full, though weak, smile.

“Wow.” Din felt a blossom of pride in his chest. His intention in telling her the story of his battle on Nevarro was to distract her, even for a few moments, from both the pain in her side and mind; in her awed tone and lightened countenance, he saw his accomplished mission.

“And then?” Omera interjected. The child wriggled in her arms and she set him down on the forest floor.

Din shrugged. “Got pulled along for a little while. I was able to reel in the grappling hook, plant a charge, and blow it.”

“So, it's safe to say that this Moff Gideon is gone?”

“Don't see how he would have survived. Besides, I was too focused on the little one to look for—evidence.” To his own surprise, he automatically caught himself before he could say “a body.”

The clouds had broken earlier that morning, and the sunlight hit the mossy ground in dappled patches of white. The four had spent much of the morning in quiet—both Omera and Din had realized that any conscious efforts to cheer Winta up would have the opposite effect. Then, when Omera couldn't take the silence anymore, she asked Din about his journey after Sorgan. Little by little, Winta perked up, her head raising, eyes turning from dull blankness to veiled curiosity, and finally to engaged interest. The minute she asked a question, Din was grateful that he was wearing the helmet again so that she wouldn't see how relieved his smile was.

A large silver shape speckled with sunlight was approaching through the trees, and Din unconsciously picked up his pace.  _Home_ .

“You've never seen my ship, have you?” he asked Winta.

Winta shook her head.

“Do I get to see inside?”

Omera laughed.  _Home_ .

“I'd certainly hope so,” she replied, “We're going to be spending a lot of—”

“Omera.”

Din froze, tone hushed. Omera caught the child back up into her arms and stopped beside him.

“What is it?”

Din pointed. Through the thinning trees, they could see a figure was circling the ship.  


“Can you stand?” Din whispered to Winta. Her face fell as she nodded. Slowly, Din set her on her feet, Omera immediately wrapping an arm around her shoulders. Din motioned: “stay here.” Omera nodded. His hand quietly drew the blaster on his hip.

Stalking into the clearing, blaster aimed for the kill, Din's mind clicked back into the mode of the hunter. His prey, broken down into its components: no uniform or armor, not Imperial. Scrapper, maybe. He shifted his aim from kill to injure. A closer view. Young man, ragged clothes, no visible weapon. Face turned away from him as he pounded on the side of the Razor Crest.

“Hello? Omera? Mando?”

The voice was familiar. Din lowered the blaster from injure to startle.

“Arten?”

The young man gasped, spinning around, hands flying up, palms out. A split second of fear, followed by a shaky exhale, hands dropping to the knees as Arten bent forward.

“What the hell are you doing to my ship?”

“I was—I was sent to see what happened,” Arten replied, regaining his breath, “we saw the smoke, heard the explosion. I see  _you_ made it out okay.”

Din sighed. He holstered the blaster and turned back toward where he'd come from.

“It's all right,” he called, “come on.”

The child was the first to make it into the clearing, making a beeline for Din. Omera and Winta moved slowly, and Din came to Winta's other side, giving her his hand to brace on.

Arten's face fell into something between sheepishness and relief as they reached the ship.

“Winta! I'm glad you're okay,” he said, before noticing how she leaned into her mother, how tightly she was holding Din's hand.

“Hi, Arten.” 

Din leaned down and pressed a button on his gauntlet. The side hatch came down gradually, groaning a little as it fell. 

“Come on, Winta. Let's get you comfortable.” The door was too narrow for the three of them to enter as they were, so Omera and Winta entered first, Din only letting go of Winta's hand when he could no longer reach her. The child came next, purring with the familiarity of his home. After a moment, Din looked at Arten, who barely made eye contact. He jerked his head toward the ship.

“Get in.”

Arten peered cautiously inside before entering. Din followed closely behind.

After looking around for a moment, trying to find a comfortable place to set Winta, Omera saw Din open a small door, inside of which was a berth. She knew it wouldn't be wise to pick Winta up like she normally would—hands under her arms—since it would risk tearing the wound. But as they came to where Din was standing, he crouched, putting one arm behind Winta's knees and bracing the other against her back. 

“Watch your head,” he told Winta as he lifted. He gently swung her into the berth, her legs dangling off of the side. Winta hardly seemed to notice what was happening—her eyes were everywhere, taking in every inch of the Razor Crest.

Arten was doing much the same when Omera turned her gaze to him. She sighed. The news would be best coming from her. She left Din to answer Winta's questions as they started coming to the surface.

“Arten, I need you to do me a favor.”

Arten nodded.

“Sure.”

“We're leaving, and I need you to let the rest of the village know we're all right.”

Arten's brows came together.

“You're leaving? Why?”

Omera looked over her shoulder, making sure Winta wasn't listening. She leaned in and lowered her voice anyway, just in case.

“Winta and I are targets now. If we come back to the village, we'll risk all of your lives.”

Arten shook his head, rolled his eyes. His arms crossed over his chest.

“It's his fault.”

“It's not, Arten. He...he wants peace just as much as you do.”

“Just because he wants something doesn't mean he brings it. And now he's roped you into whatever he's got going on.”

“I'm the one who suggested leaving with him.”

“What were you thinking, Omera? Just because you want to sleep with him—”

“Watch your mouth.” Omera's tone had turned low, growling out of her. “You are not my peer, and you will not speak to me like one. He is a good man, and I know for a fact that we will all be safer if Winta and I stay with him. Will you tell the village or not?”

Arten's eyes had turned to his feet, and even though he was slightly taller than Omera, he shrank under her gaze. He nodded once, barely noticeable.

“Sorry.”

She paused, unsure what to say. “Just be careful, Arten. Take care of your grandmother.”

“I will.”

Arten turned to leave, but not before casting his gaze to Din as he crouched in front of Winta. Winta was pointing at something, her eyes shining, even if a little muted, asking a question. Din seemed to be answering her, nodding and gesturing. After shaking his head one more time, Arten stepped back into the forest, soon disappearing from view.

Omera heard a snippet of the conversation behind her.

“...Now, when we take off, you're going to have to hold on tight to this bar. I don't have any safety belts yet. Okay?”

“Okay. Where does little brother sit?”

“Well, he usually sits with me up in the cockpit. Maybe you two can take turns.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Omera turned to look at the scene. The child was reaching upwards to Din—a gesture asking to be picked up.

“Oh, you want to sit with Winta?” Din asked. 

He lifted the child with ease and placed him in the little space on Winta's right. Immediately, the child placed a tiny hand just over her wound. Omera watched as the child's eyes squinted, and his ears trembled with some unseen effort. She came closer, placing a hand on Din's shoulder.

“What is he—”

“Watch.”

Din peeled the bandaging off of the wound, and Omera's eyes widened as she watched it shrink, then fade entirely. Winta's mouth fell open, and the child leaned into her now-healed side.

“How did he do that?” Winta asked.

The same question was running through Omera's mind. She'd heard of the various powers of the Force, but seeing it in action, set in motion by a child...

“It's a long story,” Din said, reaching up and scratching just behind the child's right ear. “I'll tell you once we're in the air.”

He stood, facing Omera. He looked over her shoulder for a moment, then back at her. His hands closed and opened again at his side.  


“Last chance.”

Omera's face softened. So he'd heard Arten. Or else, he was voicing some doubt that had started to grow in his mind, unwarranted. She turned toward the hatch, pressing the button she guessed would close it. The forests of Sorgan slid out of her view, replaced with steel. She turned back to Din, taking his hands in her own.

“I like our chances.”

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is: the end of In the Aftermath. The first chapter of Book II, which is as of yet untitled, will be out in either June or July—I'll have a firm release date in the coming weeks as the story develops. There'll be a couple of one- and two-shots between now and then, so keep an eye on both my AO3 author page and my Twitter (@EAReames) for updates. If you have any prompts for one-shots, let me know!
> 
> I don't know what I can say to accurately describe how proud I am of this piece, and how happy I am that you came along with me for the ride. This is the first time I've done something this in-depth, and I had no idea back in January that anyone would read it, or that I would even finish it. But I showed up, and so did you, even though you didn't have to. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
> 
> I'll see you soon. :)


	17. Announcements: A Sequel, One-Shots, and More

Hi, readers! I hope you've all been well. I have a couple of announcements to make, and I hope you like them as much as I do! I've been hard at work for the past few weeks, and I am proud to announce that

The title of the sequel to _In the Aftermath_ is... _**Sanctuary**_! 

This piece will likely be longer than its predecessor, with longer chapters. Where  _In the Aftermath_ is a novella,  _Sanctuary_ will read more like a true novel. 

Second announcement: here's a brief plot summary.

“After months of wandering the galaxy, Clan Djarin is finally ready to make a home base on Nevarro, among the lava fields and familiar faces. But their suit for peace is interrupted when an attempt is made on Din's life, as well as the lives of his family. Din must hunt down the assassin's buyer before another, more deadly, attack can be made.”

I'll be posting some sneak peeks and behind-the-scenes material on my Twitter, @EAReames, as well as my new Tumblr (poetryinmotion-author). The release date for  _Sanctuary_ is  **June 20, 2020 at 4:00 pm EST on Archive Of Our Own (AO3).**

But that's not all—Between now and June 20, I'll be posting one-shots taking place between the two books. Their release dates are:

**May 9, 2020**

**May 16, 2020**

**May 23, 2020**

**May 30, 2020**

**June 6, 2020**

**June 13, 2020**

Each one-shot will be released at the usual time ( **4:00 pm EST** ), and will be in one story document on AO3 called  _The Journey On_ . There may be more than six pieces—we'll see. :)

That's all for now. I am so excited for this new work, and I can't wait to bring you all along for the ride! Read lots, stay in, stay safe. This is the way.


End file.
